


Waiting On You

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety!Q, Developing Relationship, M/M, Porn happens but it's not really the focus, Server!Q, Vaguely Described Violence, Wow This Got Out Of Hand, actual communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-08 05:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13451652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: Bond was hardly given to self-reflection, but he supposed if he put much thought into why he continued to patronize this particular restaurant, he might pin his reasoning on his server.Because Q was absolutelyhisserver.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostCaravan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostCaravan/gifts).



> Wow this is a mess! I restarted this thing about three times and ended up writing about 22,000 words in a month. There are a lot of things I'm not happy with, but there are things that I am happy with and I'm glad I finished.
> 
> So! Thanks so much to [Ghost](https://crystalwitcher.tumblr.com/) for your amazing art prompt! As soon as I saw it, I knew that was the one I wanted to write a story for, and I'm so glad I had the opportunity to. Everyone go check out her Tumblr, she's got a couple of pieces up and they're lovely!
> 
> This story _is_ complete and will update on a Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule. In my scrambling, I did not have a beta or a brit-picker, so any mistakes are on my own head. If you see anything terribly out of place, though, please let me know!

 

-/-/-

“Back again, Mr. Bond.” Q observed.

“Back again, Q.” Bond nodded.

Q offered Bond one of his enigmatic little smiles and balanced his tray more evenly on the flat of his palm. “Well, then. What may I get for you today?”

-/-/-

It wasn’t a terribly large or noteworthy restaurant. The atmosphere was warm and intimate, everything done up in shades of brown and red, draped in curtains and tablecloths. It ought to have been too close, too bland, but it somehow came together in something cohesive and pleasant that Bond didn’t care to pick at.

It wasn’t the nicest restaurant he’d been to by miles, but it was nice all the same. Servers, smartly dressed in black waistcoats and red bistro aprons, weaved between tables with laden trays and pitchers of ice water, ready to take on the masses of guests – couples ensconced in each other and dead to the rest of the world, businesspeople conducting ruthless deals thinly veiled in civility, the odd family sporting well-dressed and thoroughly bored children, and the people like Bond (alone, but not to be discounted).

Bond was hardly given to self-reflection, but he supposed if he put much thought into why he continued to patronize this particular restaurant, he might pin his reasoning on his server.

Because Q was absolutely _his_ server.

-/-/-

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you lived here, Q.”

“You wouldn’t be too far off the mark.” Q glanced up at Bond, wry amusement in his eyes, “I do have my own flat, though. What would you like to eat today?”

“What do you do in your free time, then?” Bond continued as though Q hadn’t abruptly switched topics.

To his credit, Q didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll tell you my hobby if you give me your order.”

Bond raised his eyebrows, a mock sort of surprise. “Only one hobby?”

“Unless you plan on ordering two meals.” Q returned, “What would you like to eat today?”

Considering the menu for a moment, as though he hadn’t already memorized anything he might be interested in eating, Bond heaved a put-upon sigh. “Prime rib, medium rare; jacket potato, everything on.”

Q nodded, jotting down the order even as he spoke to Bond, as if imparting an afterthought. “I work with computers.”

Bond waited a moment, but no further information came. “That’s it?” He leaned forward in his chair a bit, “What do you _do_ with computers? Programming, games, graphic design… hacking? Give me something, here.”

“I don’t do graphic design. Apparently I’ve no taste for color schemes.” Q gave a thin smile, “Otherwise, if something can be done with a computer, I can do it. And I can do it better than anyone else.”

“Can you?” Bond tilted his head to the side, considering this new cockiness from Q.

“Even if I couldn’t, I rather doubt you’re the type who would be able to tell.” Q’s smile sharpened to a smirk, but something stayed soft about his eyes and told Bond he meant no true offense, “I’ll go and put your order in, shall I?”

Q left Bond sitting at his table, shaking his head but smiling all the same. The teasing arrogance was more charming than he expected.

-/-/-

It was something of a pastime while Bond was eating, to watch Q serve his other tables.

To call Q willowy would be most polite. His heavy apron nearly met around his back, tied tightly around his trim waist with the strings circling him once more before being knotted at his side. His uniform waistcoat bagged out just a bit on his thin frame and moved loosely as Q did; Bond supposed the cut was meant to be more practical than flattering, but he itched to see Q in something more fitted.

It was a way of thinking picked up in his line of work, Bond knew, having so often seen lovely creatures properly dressed before they were properly undressed.

Q approached the table, pitcher in hand. “You’re staring.”

“My table has a lovely view.” Bond told him.

Eyebrow raised, Q took up Bond’s water glass to refill. “You have rather an odd taste in vistas.”

Bond hummed thoughtfully, sipping at his martini as Q replaced his glass and cleared the plate from his starter. “Odd, perhaps, but pleasant.” Bond replied at last.

Q hummed in return. “Agree to disagree, I think.”

Bond continued to quietly disagree, and watched Q walk back to the kitchen.

-/-/-

Bond never did get around to bringing a date to the restaurant.

There were larger, more expensive venues to take women to, he thought to himself. He didn’t have much use for small and intimate when he only wanted to impress.

Bond began to wonder, then, what Q would think if he came in with a lovely lady on his arm. Or even a lovely young man. Would he simply serve Bond as usual? Would there be a hint of jealousy in his eyes? Would he just be disappointed?

It was that last thought that got Bond. As Q smiled and greeted him, warmer and more genuinely that Bond saw him greet any of his other tables, Bond found he didn’t want to be responsible for wiping that soft happiness off Q’s face.

And he certainly wasn’t going to share it with anyone else.

-/-/-

Q pursed his lips, still eying the dark bruise on the side of Bond’s jaw. “That really does look rather fresh.” Q observed, “Are you certain you don’t want me to bring you any ice?”

“I’m fine, Q.” Bond shook his head, cursing to himself. He should to have waited for the bruise to fade before returning to the restaurant. He knew he should have. But he’d only flown in that afternoon, debriefed and sat through a checkup at medical, and found himself rather at ends when he was finally released; all he’d wanted was something comfortable and familiar, and he’d ended up at a table with Q hovering over him.

Unconvinced, Q drew his order pad from his pocket but didn’t drop the subject. “Just what was it you said you did for a living?”

“International sales.” Bond lied just as smoothly as every time before, “But I don’t always get to stay in the most luxurious places.”

“Or the safest, apparently.” Q drawled, “You really need to be more careful.”

Bond gave Q a charming grin, the effect unimpeded by the bruise. “I’ll do my best.”

“You’d better.” Q huffed, “I do hope you get hazard pay.”

“Would you miss me terribly if something happened to me, then?”

Q paused, and Bond wondered if it was a joke too far, but the strange twist of upset visible on his face only lasted a beat or two before Q’s expression was smoothing into dry indifference. “Of course. I doubt if anyone else can terrorize me quite like you do.”

Bond gave Q another smile, perhaps a hair more genuine than his dry tone implied. “You say the sweetest things, Q.”

-/-/-

“You’re not going to get in trouble?”

Q shook his head, arranging the pile of linens on the table where he sat opposite Bond. “There’s no one else here to see my untoward behavior.” He smirked over at Bond, “And none of the other servers will bat an eye at my sitting with you. You’re in so often, they think we’re friends.”

Bond tilted his head to the side, considering Q. “Are we not?”

Q glanced up from the silverware he was shifting from a dish tray and into separate cups. “Are we?”

Bond took a swallow of his scotch, his third since he’d come in for dinner over two hours before, and Q returned to his silverware.

Conversation flowed easily between them when they spoke, but silence settled just as lightly and Bond found he appreciated that about Q. Everyone knew how to talk; not just anyone knew how to keep quiet.

Sipping at his drink, Bond watched as Q began to roll out sets of silverware; long fingers plucked up knives and forks and spoons and layered them one on top of the other to roll into a waiting linen, each roll added to a neat stack before the process was repeated.

Q had interesting hands. His nails were kept ruthlessly short and skin was perpetually dried out from constant washing, but they were pleasant to look at nonetheless. Long fingers, broad palms, a strong grip, and callouses Bond was certain didn’t come from waiting tables. He was willing to bet they were always just a bit cold, and thought briefly about how he could warm them up.

“I’ve no idea what you’re like outside of work.” Bond admitted when Q had finished a third of his work.

“Rather a lot like I am here, honestly.” Q’s shoulders twitched up, “Fastidious, unable to keep still. Busy.”

“Busy with your computers?” Bond hazarded.

“Sometimes. I do have other interests.” Q told him, though not displeased with Bond’s guess.

“Like what?”

Q paused in rolling up another linen, a minute disturbance in his rhythm before he continued as before. “I like to build things, sometimes.” He told Bond quietly, “Or improve things.”

“Things?” Bond inquired lightly, wondering how far he could push before Q clammed up, “What kind of things?”

“Machines, mostly. You know, I’ve no idea what _you’re_ like outside of this restaurant.” Q’s subject change came with the grace of a drunken hippopotamus, “I assume you’re just as nosy.”

Bond allowed the shift in topic. “I prefer ‘inquisitive’.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Otherwise, if you’re terribly curious, you’ll just have to find out for yourself.”

Q looked up again from his work, eyes lit with equal curiosity and wariness. “I really don’t have the time or inclination to become a stalker, you know.” He quipped, gratified when Bond’s flirtatious grin deepened a bit into something actually amused.

“Stalking _is_ something of a commitment. Why don’t you start simpler?” Bond offered, “Let me tell you more over dinner.”

Q’s attention was suddenly trained unfalteringly on the silverware. “Everything you tell me is over dinner. That’s rather how this arrangement works.”

“A dinner someone else has served.” Bond amended.

“Bit late for dinner.” Q wrapped up the last of his silverware, “Going on eleven already.”

It was a purposeful misunderstanding, Bond knew. He let it slide. “Perhaps another time.”

Already gathering up the leftover linens, Q glanced over at Bond with something hesitantly genuine in his smile that belied his dry tone. “Perhaps.”

-/-/-

Watching Q maneuver around tables with a laden tray on one shoulder put to mind a bizarre kind of dance. There was certainly a brand of grace and balance inherent to the display that made Bond wonder if Q liked to dance. He considered asking, but doubted an invitation to do so would be met with overt enthusiasm. Best stick with dinner.

“Should I start bringing a book for you to read?” Q inquired as he approached, “I do so hate to see someone bored while they eat.”

“A book? Not a tablet? E-reader, maybe?”

Q gave Bond the same wry smile that his teasing was always met with. “Sometimes analog is better.”

“We can agree on that, at least. I’m not bored, though. I wanted to ask you a question.”

The small smile melted away, leaving a confused frown as Q searched Bond’s table for any sort of problem. “Did you need another drink?”

“Nothing to do with this particular meal.” Bond shook his head, “I was wondering if you might accompany me to dinner this Friday. At a different restaurant. For a meal someone else has served.”

Rather than the return of the smirk Bond had expected at his over-specifications, Q only glanced down and away. “I work on Friday.”

“Well what day would you be free, then?”

“I…” Q paused, cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, “I really don’t think I’m the sort of person you want to go on a date with, James.”

“No?” Bond leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, “How do you figure?”

Q’s mouth gave a sort of twist, not quite a frown but too unhappy to be classified as much else. “You’re a rather big, important person with a big, important job. You wear expensive suits and drive a very nice car and travel the world. You’re the sort of person who needs a partner who can keep up with you and I am…” Q shook his head, “I am certainly not any of the things you are. I’m not the sort of person who belongs out with you.”

“I see.” Bond considered Q for a moment, staring as though he was really chewing the words over, “You’re the sort that belongs at the side of the table, then? Carrying a tray and bringing my drinks? Subservient?”

The flash of affront in Q’s eyes was unmistakable, and exactly what Bond had been expecting. “I didn’t say that.” Q’s voice was carefully modulated, carrying no outward offense but dangerous nonetheless.

“Then don’t say things that imply it.” Bond countered, “Q, I wouldn’t want to go out with a man like me. But I do want to go out with a man like you, if you’ll let me.”

Still not-quite-frowning, Q crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

There were at least half a dozen reasons Bond could have given, things he’d started wondering about the more time he spent with Q, things he’d learned about the other man that he wanted to see more of, and more things he wanted to learn.

 _You’re brilliant; you make me smile; I want to see what you look like without your uniform on; I want to see what you look like without_ anything _on; you keep me on my toes; God help me, you’re the only good thing I have untouched by my work and I want you_ – “I want to see what you’re like outside of this restaurant.” Bond grinned, “And I’ll hazard you’d like the same.”

Q watched Bond for a moment without quite catching his gaze, and sighed. “This is a terrible idea.”

Bond smiled on. “People have said that about some of my best ideas yet.”

“That’s hardly encouraging.”

“On the contrary. How’s Sunday for you?”

-/-/-

Q was, as Bond expected, almost exactly on time. “You must have perfected the art of public transportation.” He teased as Q approached.

“Not all of us own sports cars.” Q replied, “You look… very casual.”

Bond waved a vague hand at his outfit—light-colored slacks and a jacket with a button down shirt, simple but still very nice—and cocked an eyebrow at Q. “This is casual?”

“Considering I’ve only ever seen you in tailored suits and ties made from what I can only assume is silk, it’s quite casual.”

“Well,” Bond gave Q his own once-over, “I can’t say I don’t prefer this to your uniform.”

The waistcoat and apron had been done away with, leaving dark slacks paired with a bright cardigan and tie. It was all fitted in a way that accented the long lines of Q’s lean body where his loose-cut uniform never did. A bit garish though the cardigan was, Bond found he still preferred it. Q tugged at the hem of his sleeve as Bond glanced over him. “This is the nicest outfit I own. I trust it will be sufficient.” It wasn’t quite a question, delivered in an uncomfortable and imperious tone, but Bond nodded nonetheless.

“It will do very nicely.” He assured Q, then gestured down the street, “Now let’s get going.”

Q blinked in uncertain surprise. “Aren’t we…” He pointed to the restaurant Bond had requested they meet in front of, “Aren’t we eating here?”

“No, this was just the meeting point. I wanted dinner to be a surprise and, since you wouldn’t let me pick you up at home, this was the solution. Now come on.”

Bond turned his most charming smile on Q, who scowled at him but did allow Bond to place his hand on the small of his back as they walked. “Don’t think this means I’ll be letting you drive me home.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bond replied lightly.

“I have an excellent sense of direction. A change of venue won’t disorient me.” Q asserted.

“Q, not everything is a fiendish attempt to confuse you.” Bond insisted, “Try to enjoy dinner, would you?”

In what Bond could sense was a rather rare event, Q acquiesced. Wherever his paranoia had come from, he seemed to let it return there. His muscles relaxed just slightly beneath Bond’s palm and his tone, when he spoke, was less terse. “Where _are_ we going, then?”

Bond shook his head, stroking his thumb gently over the line of Q’s spine. “Q, do you know what a surprise is?”

-/-/-

“This isn’t what I was expecting.” Q admitted as the host left them to look at their menus, “It’s…”

“Different than your restaurant?” Bond offered.

“That, yes.”

Bond gave a smooth approximation of a shrug. “I thought the less you were reminded of work, the more relaxed you might be.”

“That’s…” Q looked down at his menu, clearing his throat, “That’s thoughtful. Thank you.”

Bond smiled, though Q was no longer watching. If Q were prone anything so trivial as awarding brownie points, Bond expected he would have just earned some. When their server came and introduced himself, asking after their drink orders, Bond turned to Q and gestured toward the somewhat limited wine list. “Would you like a glass?”

“No, thank you.” Q shook his head, firm but not unkind in his denial, “I prefer to keep a clear a head. You’re welcome to it, though. It doesn’t bother me.”

“No,” Bond decided after a moment, “Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

Q raised a dubious eyebrow, but seemed unwilling to argue the point while the server was waiting for their orders. It was a sort of conscientiousness Bond found himself a bit charmed by. “A Roy Rogers, please.” Q glanced at Bond, then amended, “Two, actually.”

-/-/-

“Do your dates often attempt to disorient you?” Bond asked, once their drinks and starters had arrived.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t drink,” Bond nodded at the glass of Coke and grenadine at Q’s elbow, “And earlier you were quite adamant you wouldn’t be confused by a change in plans.”

“Ah.” Q cleared his throat, looking down at his plate, “That was rather overzealous of me, I’m afraid. It wasn’t meant as a comment on your character, only that I was somewhat nervous. And I don’t…”

Bond waited, calmly pulling another strip of breaded zucchini from the plate between them, assured that eventually Q would continue.

“My dates don’t attempt to disorient me, because I don’t really date. At all. This is the first date I’ve been on in a ridiculously long time. I’m afraid you are on the receiving end of the mother of all first date jitters.” Q rushed out, taking up a piece of zucchini and shoving it into his mouth to end the speech.

“I’m honored, then, that you accepted my invitation,” Bond smiled, “Jitters and all.”

“You say that now,” Q muttered, though he was beginning to smile as well, “Just wait until you’ve been subjected to them for another hour or so.”

-/-/-

They walked more slowly on the way back to their meeting point. Bond’s hand had once again found a place at the small of Q’s back, and Q walked more closely to Bond, almost pressed into his side. The food had been good and the conversation pleasant, and it seemed to Bond that Q had relaxed a great deal since the start of the night. “It’s been over an hour,” Bond said quietly, “And it turns out I am still honored.”

Q let an amused huff through his nose, rolled his eyes, and took a half step closer to Bond to nudge him with his shoulder. He didn’t quite move away afterwards. “I’m glad.” He said at last.

They reached the street corner where Q had first found Bond waiting and came to a leisurely stop in the lamplight. “I’m glad,” Q said again, “That I agreed to come. That you asked me.”

Bond said nothing, but slid his hand from the small of Q’s back to his waist as he turned to face him. There was no doubting his intention from the way he crowded fully into Q’s personal space; even Q himself couldn’t mistake what was meant to happen next.

It was slow, giving Q the chance to push away, to say no, but finally Bond’s mouth was pressed to Q’s and Q responded with quiet enthusiasm. His hand fisted in Bond’s jacket, not pulling but anchoring as Q pushed in closer, turning his head in an effort to avoid gouging at Bond with his glasses. The kiss went on, close-mouthed but eager, for some time, but when Bond opened his mouth to Q’s, the other man pulled back with a sharp breath, jarring the hand that had found its way to the back of his neck. “I won’t be inviting you home.” He gasped, taking a shivering step back from Bond.

There was a swell of disappointment that Bond did well to smother. “That’s alright.”

“Tonight was wonderful.” Q paused, shaking his head, “But I’ll have to say good night.”

“That’s alright.” Bond repeated, “But I would like to take you out again.”

Q squinted at Bond in the yellow glow of the streetlight. “Would you really?” His voice was halfway to bitter disbelief.

“I would, really. I’ll call you.” Bond insisted.

“You can come see me, still. At the restaurant.” Q cleared his throat, “If you like.”

“I’ll come see you. And I’ll still call.” Bond smiled, and Q smiled back.

-/-/-

Bond did not call.

At 0400 the morning following his date with Q, he received an urgent summons to headquarters. He was to be deployed immediately.

Unable to do anything but comply, he texted Q and hoped for the best.

_[Sent at 4:13 AM] Being sent on a sudden trip for work. I’m sorry. Will call asap._

When he checked his phone a final time before boarding a plane to South Africa three hours later, there had been no response.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no head for technology, so I was as vague as possible; I hope it doesn't ruin the immersion or... whatever. Also porn; I haven't written any of that since 2014, so I am simultaneously nervous and sorry

It was three weeks before Bond was able to return to London, and another two days before he felt prepared to go find Q at the restaurant.

The city had properly descended into a cold and damp October, the chill doing little for Bond’s sore muscles even in the cozy little restaurant. He hadn’t come away from his latest assignment unscated; there were bruises over his bruises and his knee was still mending from a torn muscle, but he had at least managed to avoid significant damage to his head. He had no injury visible above the neck and, though he was grateful, he wondered if even just a small bruise would go a ways in convincing Q of the legitimacy of his business trip.

The way Q’s face remained largely impassive as he approached the table told Bond it probably would have. “Good evening, James.” Q nodded when he’d drawn level with Bond’s table. He was nothing like as irritated as Bond thought he might be, given Bond had never called after their date and then disappeared for a month.

“Good evening, Q.” Bond tried for a true smile.

Q gave a shallow smile back—the weird, false one he usually gave to guests who weren’t Bond—and looked down at his order pad. “What can I get you to drink tonight?”

Bond blinked. Would there be no discussion of what was left between them at all? “Did you get my text, by chance?”

“I did.” Q nodded.

“…and?” Bond prompted after a pause.

“And nothing. I appreciate that you took the time to send a message, I suppose. Though I should tell you, you needn’t have lied about wanting a second date. I would have been fine if you’d just said goodnight.”

“I did want a second date. I still do. I was called in to work at four that morning, I barely had time to message you as it was.”

Q glanced up from his order pad, something quizzical in his expression. “What kind of export company calls someone in for an emergency business trip at four AM?”

“The very busy kind. The deal was very last minute, I had to get on it immediately.” Bond replied, voice smooth even with the thin cover he was making.

“And it kept you busy for a whole month.”

“It did.”

“And you had no time to call or text or even bloody e-mail at all.”

“I had almost no signal most of the time.” That, at least, was true.

Q pursed his lips and stared down at Bond, his order pad and pen still clutched in his hands though he had yet made no further effort in taking an order. Bond looked back, calm and as honest as he was able to be, and leaned back in his chair. He remembered the large bruise across his left shoulder blade too late, and was unable to disguise the wince under Q’s intense gaze.

Q’s face softened a fraction at Bond’s pained grimace, at least, one hand making an abortive effort to touch Bond’s shoulder. “Are you injured again?”

“Just a few bruises.” Bond assured him, calm once more.

“On your back?” Q shook his head, “Christ, James, where the hell did they send you?”

“I can’t say, unfortunately. We’re keeping the deal very quiet.”

Q snorted. “Who am I going to tell? The dishwasher?”

“You never know,” Bond smirked, “Spies are everywhere.”

“I’m sure.” Q drawled, glancing quickly over what he could see of Bond above the table, “At least you didn’t seem to enjoy yourself, wherever you were.”

“Thank God for that.” Bond nodded with faux solemnity.

Q frowned. “I only meant— I really believed you. When you said it was okay that I didn’t invite you back. And that you were going to call. I felt… very foolish.” Very angry, very hurt, he didn’t say.

“I would have called. I thought of you a lot, while I was away.”

Truthfully, Bond _had_ thought of Q; in idle moments, Bond wondered what Q would have thought of the view from Bond’s hotel room, what Q would have had to say about the situations Bond got himself into, how Q probably would have been able to get into the computer system faster than the lowly tech who’d been assigned to Bond’s mission, whether Q would like the kitschy souvenirs Bond saw at the airport. It was a dangerous feeling, he knew, and yet the thought of Q steadied him as much as it unsettled him, and it was the former he wanted to hold onto.

Bond held his hand out to Q, palm up in invitation. “I would still like to go on that second date. If you’d like.”

Q eyed the hand. “I’ve never been accused of gullibility before, and I wouldn’t like to begin a trend now.”

It wasn’t an outright ‘no’; Bond’s hand stayed steady over the table.

“Don’t make me regret this, James.” Q murmured at last, leaving his pen on the tablecloth to reach out and take Bond’s hand, “Because I would like very much for there to be more than just the second date.”

Bond smiled.

-/-/-

There were more dates.

-/-/-

Largely, they went to dinner. Bond mostly chose their destinations; Q claimed he didn’t know many restaurants besides his own, nor did he much care where they went either way – that he was just happy to be going. The restaurants were always nice, but never on the same level as Q’s, and every time Q would give Bond a little smile, as though Bond had done something unexpectedly kind.

Bond realized it was not specifically his kindness, but the consideration in general that Q did not expect.

“I don’t go out much. I cook for myself when I can, stay at home and work on my projects, stream any movies I might want to see…” Q admitted one evening, “I think I’ve spent so long just serving other people and taking care of myself that I stopped expecting anyone to do anything for me.”

Bond wanted to do things for Q, he decided, until Q thought of this kindness not as the exception, but the rule. Rather than voice his thought, Bond asked, “Will you show me your projects sometime?”

Q took another bite of his meal, possibly stalling for time. “I’d like to, I think.” He said once he’d chewed and swallowed, “Not all of them are tangible, mind. Some of them are coding projects, things I do on the computer that don’t really seem like much unless you know what you’re looking at, but– yes.”

Bond reached across the table to grasp Q’s restless hand. “I look forward to it.”

-/-/-

Every time, Bond offered Q a ride home.

Every time, Q declined.

“I’ll be fine,” Q insisted, something earnest in his eyes, “But I appreciate that you offer.”

_Keep offering_ , Bond took it as. Q still seized up just a little at any suggestion of returning to anyone’s house—his or Bond’s—but the reaction was lessening quickly. Bond expected Q would relent sooner rather than later.

Until then, he could wait. He did enjoy a bit of a challenge.

-/-/-

One month following Bond’s return from South Africa, Moneypenny called him to arrange a meeting with M the following morning.

_“I imagine you’ll be shipped out the same day.”_ Moneypenny said once she’d secured the appointment.

“We do like to work quickly.” Bond hummed, something like pleased to be back to work.

For once, he had appreciated the time afforded to him post mission, if only to convince Q he was quite serious in his intentions. But he _had_ missed working.

-/-/-

Bond called rather than texted, despite the late hour, counting on Q’s odd schedule.

_“Hello?”_ Q answered, perhaps distracted but definitely awake.

“Good evening, Q.” It had become something like their customary greeting, when Bond came to visit Q at work.

_“Good evening, James.”_ Bond could hear Q’s answering grin, _“To what do I owe the pleasure of a phone call at… 11:15 at night?”_

“Business, unfortunately. I’ve been scheduled to meet with my boss in the morning. They’ll likely be sending me on a trip.”

There was a pause. _“You’d think they would send someone else after the nasty bit of trouble you had last time. Or even a couple of trips before that.”_

Bond fancied he could feel Q’s disapproval through the phone. “They send me because they know I can handle it. I’ll be fine, Q. But I’m afraid we won’t make it to the cinema tomorrow.”

_“Just because you_ can _handle it doesn’t mean you should have to.”_ Q grumbled, _“But you do love your job. And we can reschedule our movie, that’s fine.”_

To leave it at that would have been preferable, but there were illusions Bond couldn’t have Q operating under. “I can’t say how long I’ll be gone. These trips have a way of extending themselves. I can’t promise we’ll make it to the movie while it’s still showing.”

_“Well. I know a place we can probably stream it from. And I have a very nice television. Large screen.”_ Q offered after a moment.

“Do you?” Bond grinned, “Perhaps we could skip he cinema and have a private screening.”

There was a staticky huff of laughter. _“I would like to at least try to catch it in the cinema. I haven’t been in a long time. But perhaps you could give me a ride home afterwards, and I’ll show you the telly regardless.”_

“Is it just your television you want to show me?” Bond teased, stubbornly flirting his way past the lingering anxiety in Q’s tone.

_“Well I did promise to show you my projects. And there may be a few other things we can do.”_

“Now that does sound promising. I’ll have to make my way back home as quickly as possible.”

_“See that you do.”_ Q paused, just a beat, then added, _“Be safe, James.”_

Bond’s smile was perhaps inappropriate in the face of Q’s worry, but he found it couldn’t quite be helped. There was a warmth in his chest that Bond wasn’t quite accustomed to, something that grew from the genuine care Q showed for him, and he smiled on. “I’ll be as careful as is possible.” Bond promised.

And if his coming situation didn’t make being careful particularly possible, that would hardly be his fault.

-/-/-

The mission went surprisingly well. Hardly a milk run, but fairly straightforward nonetheless.

Even the building that nearly blew with him in it couldn’t quite dampen the fact that he had finished inside a week.

“I’m rather impressed. This is the cleanest mission you’ve been involved in in ages.” Mallory said as he looked through the mission report, “Barring the unexpected explosions towards the end.”

“To be fair, it was Q branch who blew the building,” Bond pointed out, “While I was still inside.”

“Yes, that’s been dealt with.” Mallory glanced up at Bond, who nodded in satisfaction, “Routine procedure, then. Post-mission leave, I expect your report by week’s end, stay in touch. Don’t enjoy yourself too much, 007.”

“I shall endeavor not to, sir.” Bond’s grin was more unsettling than reassuring, and Mallory frowned.

-/-/-

The cinema, it turned out, was not quite the relaxing date spot Bond had been expecting.

It was dark, for one, and Q had chosen a sci-fi flick that involved rather a lot of motion and explosions. He seemed rather taken with it, face turned toward the screen and a distracted hand resting beneath Bond’s on the armrest between them, but Bond couldn’t bring himself to focus on the plot for all the stimuli. The movie was loud and bright and it was putting Bond more and more on edge.

Every so often, he couldn’t help but glance around the darkened room. It was too difficult to see faces in the inconsistent lighting, too hard to maneuver through the narrow rows of seats, too loud to hear if someone was behind them, too– “James?”

Bond turned to see Q squinting at him in the low light, somehow still managing a concerned expression. “Are you alright?” Q murmured, leaning in so his words would carry.

“Fine.” Bond insisted, shaking his head as if that would clear it.

Q frowned, but had the decency to take Bond at his word and turn back to the movie.

It had honestly been a ridiculously long time since Bond had been to the cinema, and he hadn’t quite expected how the onslaught of noise and light in a dark room would affect him. But that didn’t mean he would ruin it for Q.

Another five minutes passed before Q shifted in his seat, putting both feet on the floor and leaning over to Bond again. “I think we should go.”

“No.” Bond shook his head firmly, “We’re going to stay and enjoy the rest of the bloody movie.”

Q’s lips pinched to the side. “James, it’s giving me a headache. I hadn’t expected it to be this… overwhelming, I suppose.”

Bond studied Q in the dark for a moment and found he couldn’t quite tell if Q was lying or not. His hand was resting on Bond’s arm now and it would have been very difficult to miss how tense Bond was, but there was a similarly tense expression on Q’s face that very well could have been the beginnings of a headache.

Bond acquiesced. “Let’s go, then.”

-/-/-

Leaving the cinema and stepping out into the cold November air, Q squeezed Bond’s hand and gave a faint sigh. “Cinema doesn’t appear to agree with either of us, does it?”

“May have to resign ourselves to movies on the small screen.” Bond agreed, “Head still hurt?”

“It’s improving.” Q pushed his forefinger and thumb under the bridge of his glasses to rub briefly at his eyes, “Would you still be open to giving me a ride home? I understand if–”

“I would be glad to.” Bond cut in; his own condition had improved greatly when they relocated, and when Bond was able to move around once more, and like hell he was going to waste an invitation to Q’s place.

“Well, then.” Q’s mouth tilted in a small smile, “Shall we go?”

-/-/-

“It’s not much. And there are cats. I just realized. You’re not allergic, are you? That would be problematic.” Q chattered as they climbed the stairs to his third floor flat.

“Not allergic to cats.” Bond shook his head in vague amusement.

“Good.”

When they reached the door at the end of the hall, Q pulled a keyring from his pocket and began the process of unlocking the door. Bond had seen the keyring before, consisting of four keys and a multi tool, and had wondered briefly what Q could need all those keys for. Three out of the four of them, it seemed, were simply for his flat. “Seems a little excessive,” Bond commented as Q went through three locks in quick succession, “Your neighborhood’s not that bad.”

“It just makes me feel better. Not all places I’ve lived have been ‘not that bad’.” Q answered, somewhat distracted as he held the door for Bond, “It’s not always this neat, I’m afraid, so please don’t expect something tidy whenever you come over.”

Bond stored away Q’s answer in regards to his security and left it to examine another time, instead looking around the cramped room they entered into. “This is tidy?”

At first glance, the space was something of a disaster. The flat was rather small, with a kitchen off the main room and two doors that Bond expected led to the bedroom and the bathroom respectively; still, the lack of space had not prevented Q from accumulating a truly impressive amount of _things_. Every surface seemed to be covered in computer guts, actual computers, tools, books, papers, and various odds and ends. Wires snaked here and there across the floor, often leading up a table or a set of shelves to various electronics. The entire thing made Bond a bit antsy just to look at.

Closer inspection, however, showed no sign of dust or grime. The floor was clean, most cables and wires were either taped down or bundled together and out of the way, and Bond could hardly even find evidence of the alleged cats. Cluttered it was, but as Q had once said, he was just as fastidious in his home as he was at work. “It’s… rather you.” Bond said at last.

Q snorted. “It’s terrible, I know. I try not to let things become too much of a fire hazard. I’d have loved to have a room to keep just my projects in, but this place cost enough as it was.”

Q hung his coat on the stand by the door, before taking Bond’s to do the same. “I realize it’s not much, but I could offer a tour?”

-/-/-

“You built this yourself?”

Q hummed, likely as much in agreement as to the way one of Bond’s thumbs was stroking at his waist while the other hand was occupied with the enormous touch screen television in front of them. “Built and programmed.” He nodded.

It was, as promised, a decidedly large screen, and it operated faster and more smoothly than anything of its kind Bond had seen in use at headquarters. “It’s fantastic.” He declared, turning his head to press a kiss into the side of Q’s throat.

Q’s breath caught, and he shifted just slightly on his feet to press back into Bond, who stood fairly wrapped around him. “It’s really the least of my projects.” Q murmured, “It was incredibly easy to put together once I had all the materials. Just something to keep me busy.”

“If this is the least of what you can do, I’d like to see when you really get going.” Bond moved his hand from Q’s waist to his hip, his grip gentle but firm, “I don’t suppose you have any projects in your bedroom you’d like to show off?”

Chest to back with Q, Bond felt as much as he heard the short burst of laughter. “James, that was a terrible line.”

“The only terrible line is one that doesn’t work.” Bond returned to kissing Q’s neck, both hands on his hips now, “Did it work?”

Q shivered. “Might have.”

Bond grinned against Q’s skin. “Then it wasn’t terrible.”

-/-/-

Bond disentangled his hand from Q’s hair just long enough to reach for the bedside lamp, only to have Q grab him by the wrist and pull his hand back to his scalp. “Feels good.” Q mumbled against his mouth, “Don’t stop.”

“One of us has to let go long enough to turn on the light.” Bond pointed out, though he obligingly wound his fingers back into dark hair and tugged just hard enough to have Q’s hips stuttering against his own.

“Vision is overrated.” Q insisted, one hand still wrapped loosely around Bond’s wrist while the other endeavored to pull Bond ever closer by the front of his shirt.

“I don’t think it is.” Bond pressed one more heavy kiss to Q’s lips before pulling away, moving instead to mouth his way up the line of his jaw, “I want to see you, Q. I want to see you under me, laid out on your bed, back arching, crying out…” Bond paused when he reached Q’s ear, biting down gently on the lobe, “I want to see you scream when you come for me.”

Pulling back, Bond searched what little of Q’s face he could see in the light spilling in through the open door. It glinted off the frame of his glasses and his wet lips, open and panting, but afforded Bond no clear glimpse of Q’s eyes. “Can I turn on the light now?”

Q said nothing, but nodded.

-/-/-

It was no great leap of logic to understand why Q was raring to go in the dark, yet seemed so suddenly shy when Bond had finally switched on the lamp.

He was still eager, with his hands everywhere and his hips humping up against Bond’s to the rhythm of Bond’s tongue fucking into his mouth – definitely eager. But his pace faltered with every piece of clothing Bond managed to shell off of him; he kept Bond close and distracted him with wet, sucking kisses and never gave him much opportunity to look down at Q’s body. He was happy to slide his hands across every inch of Bond’s skin that was revealed, squeezing and petting and something like adoring, but seemed unprepared for Bond to do the same, exhaling his surprise when Bond ran his palms down his prominent ribs and across sharp hip bones before coming to rest on lean thighs.

Had Bond the time and patience, he would have loved to worship Q; to lay him out and press him down and inspect every bit of him with fingers and tongue and teeth until self-consciousness was the furthest thing in the world from Q’s mind. As it was, he didn’t think he’d ever waited this long to have sex with anyone, and largely just wanted to wring out as much pleasure as he could as quickly as he could, and do the same for Q. So he put the idea aside for later and instead pulled Q’s legs wide to grind up against him, quick and hard.

Q gasped, dropping his head back and reflexively pushing back down with what little leverage he had. “Pants need to go.” He managed, reaching down to pull at the fabric of Bond’s shorts.

Bond couldn’t but agree, kneeling up to peel away Q’s pants and rid himself of his own. Both pairs went over the side of the bed, joining the rest of their clothes in sporadic piles on the floor, and finally Bond had the opportunity to look his fill of Q.

Q was composed primarily of sharp lines; made up of the stark angles of bones and the long lines of muscles defined by virtue of too little fat to obscure them. His cock stood proud between slim legs, lean and long and hard and just begging for Bond’s return. He followed the line of it up to Q’s tight belly, narrow chest, long neck, sharp jaw, and sharper eyes. Q stared back, face torn between desire—looking his fill of Bond’s body—and insecurity—realizing Bond was inspecting him just as closely.

“Gorgeous.” Bond murmured, drawing near once more to press kisses down Q’s neck.

“I feel you should know- _ah–”_ Q broke off with a gasp and quiet, wonderful noise when Bond finally settled over him, his erection slotting alongside Q’s.

Bond reached between them, wrapping his hand around both their pricks and giving an experimental squeeze. Q made another noise deep in his throat and rutted up against Bond, wrapping one leg up over Bond’s hip to gain better leverage. Bond set a rhythm, stroking the two of them together, his nose buried in Q’s neck as he nipped at the thin skin stretched over sharp collarbones.

“I should know?” He prompted when he came up for air.

With another breathless noise, Q made an effort to rally his senses back around to something like coherency. “You should know,” He repeated with a voice pulled tight, “I’ve never been much of a screamer.”

Q managed to pull one hand from where he was digging fingertip bruises into Bond’s shoulder and run it down, down over Bond’s chest and stomach to wrap it opposite Bond’s hand on their cocks, creating a fuller, tighter grip for them both to fuck into. Bond huffed against Q’s neck, some amusement and a lot of arousal, and leaned up to murmur in Q’s ear, “Let’s see if we can’t change that.” He sped his strokes, taking Q’s hand with him, sliding more easily now with the amount of precome dripping between them.

When Q came, it was with sharp, desperate noise.

Not a scream, but Bond figured they had time to work on it.

-/-/-

Breathing evened and pulses calmed again, Bond and Q lay tangled beneath the blanket that had been folded at the end of Q’s bed. It was a cover Q had insisted upon, though sweat was still drying on his skin, and Bond decided he would break Q of the need for it; for the time being, however, he had simply pulled it up over them after a perfunctory cleaning with some tissues and wrapped his arm around Q’s middle.

“It’s late.” Q murmured, squinting at the clock on his bedside table.

Bond hummed, a noncommittal noise.

“It’s… You can stay. If you want.” Q glanced down at Bond, “If you’ve nowhere to be in the morning.”

For the second time in as many months, Bond was very nearly grateful for his post-mission leave. “Nowhere to be.” Bond confirmed, “I’d like to stay.”

“I– um.” Q blinked, surprised for a moment by Bond’s quick agreement, “Good. Stay.”

“I’ll stay.” Bond smiled, pulling Q closer against him, “Get some sleep.”

Hesitance melted by Bond’s favorable reaction—and by the leftover feeling of a very pleasant orgasm—Q pressed into the embrace, reaching up to wrap one strong hand around Bond’s bicep and letting his eyes drop shut. “Alright.” He whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is where a bit of actual, uh, drama? I guess? comes in. It's not quite angst but it's not quite the fluff this story has been so far
> 
> Edit: Warning for anxiety attack within the chapter; it's not very graphically written, but just in case (I'm sorry I didn't think to do this when I posted it, I hope I didn't cause any problems!)
> 
> Two definitions:  
>  **POS System** : If you've never worked in retail or food service, POS stands for ~~Piece Of Shit~~ Point Of Sale. It's basically used for... making sales. In restaurants, we use it to put orders through to the kitchen and for taking payment. It also tends to be temperamental and stop working at the worst possible time  
>  **Cut** : If a server is cut/cut from the floor, it means they are no longer taking tables; it doesn't mean they get to go home, but they can start doing sidework (cleaning, essentially) and waiting for the last of their tables to leave

The sleep was better than Bond expected. Sated, warm, wrapped up in someone he cared for, he didn’t sleep long, but he slept well.

The morning was easy; Bond was made to follow Q’s instructions as they cooked breakfast (because Bond shouldn’t expect the same service everywhere that he got at the restaurant, apparently), during which Bond was introduced to Steve and Doughnut (sired by a neighbor’s cat and named by said neighbor’s child, Q said), and after which Q was able to show off a few more of his projects (amazing, all, regardless of how Q said he could really get going if he had the proper tools).

They shared a shower, despite Q’s insistence that was not the purpose of a shower, and he mostly stopped complaining once Bond got his mouth on Q’s cock; it was similarly difficult for Q to complain when he was reciprocating.

At last, Q saw Bond to the door. “Unfortunately, I work a double today, so it’s off with you now.” Q hesitated, a change from the confidence he’d been exhibiting since they’d looked over his projects, “If I don’t finish too late in the evening, I can call you?”

“I’m off for a bit, since finishing my last trip. I’ll come visit you, if you like.” Bond offered.

At that, Q smiled, some of his uncertainty seeming to burn away. “You know, I would.”

-/-/-

Bond watched as Q moved from table to table, a tray on his shoulder and a pleasant, false smile on his face. Q was good at his job, Bond knew. He enjoyed it well enough; it kept him busy and he did like to see people happy – whether Q recognized it or not, he was a giver. He was the sort of person who would give until he had nothing left, and then find room to give a little more. It was the sort of disposition that would either burn a person out or lead them to great success (or both) – and Q had the brilliance to be a great success.

Q’s “pet” projects were amazing, and he had put on no show of false modesty; Bond knew that when he said that those projects had been simple to him, he meant it. Q knew he could do more, had he the opportunity, and Bond knew that Q could have had as many opportunities as he wanted. And yet–

 _Why are you here?_ Bond wondered, watching Q disappear into the back of the restaurant with a tray full of dishes.

The restaurant kept Q busy, certainly, but it offered him no challenge. He saved the place a fortune in repairs, Q had once confided in Bond; when the dishwasher broke down, when the POS computers were on the fritz, when the walk-in cooler had had a meltdown, Q had been there with a fix. It was the sort of fiddly work Q enjoyed, but it wasn’t _challenging_.

Q was better than all this, Bond was certain. But here he was, apparently content, and Bond couldn’t help but wonder _why_.

He supposed he’d just have to wait and see; he could tease the answer out in time. For now, he enjoyed the smile Q was giving him, smaller but more genuine than the one before, now he’d emerged from the kitchen. “I’ve just been cut, so I should be done within the hour.” Q said as he approached, “As soon as my last table leaves, I’ll be free to go.”

“Is that your way of trying to kick me out?” Bond smirked up at him.

 “Don’t be ridiculous. If I wanted you to leave, I’d be much more obvious about it.” Q tsked at him, quietly amused, “I meant table 45. Over there.”

Bond followed the way Q had nodded his head to a couple at a small, round table identical to his own, slowly picking their way through a slice of cake while staring into one another’s eyes. “They’ve been there nearly two hours.” Q murmured, “I wish they would just decide to go home fuck already so I can clean their table.”

The comment startled a bark of laughter from Bond, and Q simply crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s what they’re going to do.” He defended, “They should just hurry up about it.”

“Don’t you believe in foreplay, Q?” Bond offered Q a salacious grin, delighting in the faint blush that he managed to prompt from him.

“I do.” Q stated, as if he weren’t already flustered, “I just don’t think it should involve obscenely long dinners in public.”

“No?” Bond cocked his head and held out his hand in invitation. Q took it after a moment, placing his own hand lightly in Bond’s. His knuckles were a raw red, a direct result of the all the washing from the day, and Bond pressed a kiss to the middle one. “Would you allow me to take you home, then, and allow us to engage in obscenely long foreplay in private?”

Q’s breath caught, and he cleared his throat. “Perhaps not _obscenely_ long.”

Bond hummed in agreement. “Just long enough, then.”

-/-/-

They formed a routine.

When Bond was home, they went on dates, or they didn’t. They went to dinner, or they stayed in and Q cooked (and Bond did the dishes, because he had to do something and Q insisted he had enough of dishes at work). They didn’t try for the cinema again, but they streamed movies on Q’s self-built telly. They sat around Q’s shoebox of a flat and watched television or chatted or sat in comfortable silence. Q would code or tinker, Bond would read books or the news, and the cats would do their best to lie all over both of them – Bond even got used to them. Bond visited Q at work a couple of nights a week and always gave him a lift home.

They had enough sex to make up for the dearth at the beginning of their relationship. Q was hardly the most skilled lover Bond had had, but he was enthusiastic and creative and almost heart-breakingly sincere in his efforts, and Bond hadn’t felt so satisfied in ages. It was a heady feeling, seeing the way Q’s lips stretched wide around his cock, hearing the muffled moan when Bond tugged his hair just this side of rough, or watching how Q would struggled not to wriggle and buck when Bond got his mouth down around Q’s prick, gripping his thighs and stroking his balls. There was a warm feeling that struck somewhere far beyond just affection when Bond had Q jerking and crying out on his fingers alone.

(“It’s been a long time since I’ve done this with another person.” Q confided as Bond’s fingers trailed unerringly down to his hole.

“How long?” Bond stroked over the tight pucker of muscle.

“Too long.” Q’s breath caught, “Will you just– _ah!”_ )

The way Q’s back bowed, the way his legs wrapped around Bond’s waist, the way he gasped and writhed and begged— _“Harder– god, James– fuck!”_ —as Bond fucked into him was near precious to Bond. It was so far from the polished people he took to bed on missions, so far from their pretense and their bids to impress; Q was open and without guile in bed, taking the pleasure Bond gave him and returning it in kind. It was novel and Bond adored it.

He adored Q.

It wasn’t that the whole thing was perfect; Q was still hesitant and unwilling to completely believe Bond wanted to be with him, Bond had his own host of issues that occasionally seethed to the front of his mind and made him damned near impossible to be around, Q would shut down every conversation Bond attempted to initiate in regards to Q’s job – they had their arguments, but it didn’t make either of them any less willing.

Still, Bond couldn’t help waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it was his assignments that made him the most uneasy.

Now sleeping with Q, it was impossible to hide the physical aftermath of his “business trips”, and Q was well beyond suspicious. Bond shut down any of Q’s queries with blunt, simple answers that he knew hid nothing, but would put the subject to rest until Bond’s next assignment.

Bond would drop by to see Q before he left, when he could; it was a novelty to have someone to bid goodbye, to have someone who would be waiting for his return. Q would frown, but say nothing of his worries, instead drawing Bond into slow kisses and murmuring entreaties against his lips.

“Be careful.” It was halfway between a plea and a command, “Please.”

And for once in a long time, Bond tried.

-/-/-

“You know, at the risk of breaking the spell, you’ve been enormously…” The doctor paused a moment, searching for an apt word, “Cooperative. Lately. I don’t want to say you completely disregard medical…”

“Perish the thought.” Bond smirked, working with the buttons of his shirt after having shed the customary hospital gown worn for x-rays.

“But you do tend to disregard medical very often.”

Bond had been unable to tell for certain whether he’d sprained or outright broken a rib and was compelled to find out. He knew Q would fret either way, but at least Bond could truthfully tell him that he’d had it checked out. He certainly had not come to medical for commentary on his changing habits, but the doctor in question—Dr. Greene, a woman about Bond’s age who was efficient and thorough and on the lower end of nosy—was someone Bond could tolerate better than a large amount of the medical staff. A short chat wouldn’t kill him, he supposed.

“Now, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d finally come to your senses.” Greene went on.

“Good thing you know better.” Bond quipped.

Greene hummed in agreement. “I think it’s far more likely that you’ve simply found incentive.”

Bond cocked an eyebrow at her. “Incentive for what?”

“To take better care of yourself. To stop treating medical like a one night stand.” Greene rode over Bond’s amused scoff, “You actually come in to have your stitches taken out properly, you make sure nothing is actually broken, and—this one was a big clue—you haven’t needed a blood test or antibiotics in months; I know you’ve seriously cut down on sleeping around on missions where you can. You don’t seem any more concerned about these things than usual, which means someone else has seen all your bumps and bruises and told you to bloody well shape up.”

“Dr. Greene,” Bond stated seriously, though not without some mirth in his eyes, “You are far too invested in this.”

“007,” Greene mimicked Bond’s tone, “It is my job to keep tabs on your health.”

 Bond shook his head, straightening his tie and standing from the exam table. “Am I free to go, then?”

“Yes, alright.” Greene waved her hand dismissively, “You know the drill. Ice, anti-inflammatories, rest – and I _mean_ rest. Go lie down with whoever it is that’s worrying over you. And shake their hand for me.”

The idea of sleep appealed to Bond, he would admit. Besides that, he was sure Q hadn’t slept as much as he ought while Bond was away; a lie down would do them both good.

After all, if Q was going to look after Bond, he could return the favor.

-/-/-

They were supposed to meet up. Bond was coming from the office and Q was meant to meet him at the little Italian restaurant they’d chosen for dinner, whereafter they would return to Q’s flat.

They were supposed to meet up, but Q wasn’t there.

Bond reminded himself that this didn’t have to be cause for alarm. It was only 15 minutes past the hour; Q had never, not once, been late to meet up with Bond – but this didn’t have to be cause for alarm.

A call to Q’s phone went through to voicemail—it was on, but he wasn’t answering—and it was 20 minutes past the hour.

This was, Bond decided as he started the car and prepared to break a few minor traffic laws to get to Q’s flat in as little time as possible, cause for at least a little alarm.

-/-/-

“ _Q?”_ Bond was not quite shouting, but he was definitely pounding on the door after having knocked twice already.

The door was locked, which was possibly a good sign. The alternative would have been decidedly alarming. Bond didn’t have keys (Q had brought up getting him a set, deliberately casual about it, but they hadn’t quite gotten around it yet), but he would pick the locks if he had to. There was something wrong; Q wasn’t late, Q didn’t ignore Bond’s calls, Q didn’t just disappear.

Bond was about to resort to alternative measures of ensuring Q was alive when the locks clicked and the doorknob turned. The door opened without any of the usual hissing at the cats to stop trying to escape and then Q was there, standing just inside the flat and looking, frankly, rather awful.

He was pale, much more so than usual, and the pallor made the redness of his eyes stand out all the more. He’d been crying, then; Bond quashed the instinct to reach for Q, to comfort him, and took one more moment to assess the situation. Q looked to be half-dressed for their date in slacks and an untucked button-down, his glasses were missing, and his hair stood out in the way it did when Q continually ran his hands through it – the way it did when he was frustrated or anxious. He was gripping the door in one white-knuckled hand while the other twitched restlessly at his side.

Uninjured. Some of Bond’s tension released at the realization, but not all – Q was decidedly upset. “What happened?” Bond asked at last.

Q’s face crumpled a bit. “I’m sorry.” He choked out hoarsely.

That was hardly encouraging. Bond shut down the immediate train of worries—Was this it? Had Q decided to end it? Was it something worse than that? Was Q in trouble? Surely Q _wouldn’t_ —and continued calmly. “What for?”

It took a moment for Q to find some words. “I didn’t show up.” His free hand came up to clutch at his hair and he looked away from Bond completely. “I was late, and then I didn’t show up at all, and now you’re here, and I’m _sorry_.”

Bond finally had an idea as to what was going on, but he wasn’t keen on conducting the entire thing in the doorway. “Let’s go inside, Q.” Bond moved forward and Q took a couple of stumbling steps back and allowed Bond to close the door.

“I was just– the dishes,” Q gestured vaguely into the kitchen, “And I… it was just a mug.”

Bond peered through the entryway into the kitchen. Shards of porcelain littered the floor. “Which mug?” Bond asked, as if it made a difference; hell, maybe it did.

“Just the– the green one. Didn’t fucking mean anything, got it at– at a fucking charity shop.” Q stuttered out, “Got it fucking _years ago_ , wasn’t even my favorite but I just _fucking broke it and–”_

“Q,” Bond stepped closer and brought his hands to Q’s arms, “It’s alright.”

“But it’s _not_. I broke it and had a _fucking meltdown_ and missed our date– made you _worry_!” Q’s voice warbled and Bond drew him in close.

“It’s alright.” He said again, low and soothing.

Q shuddered. “ _It’s_ _not…_ ” He gasped into Bond’s shoulder.

Triggers were funny things, Bond mused. Sometimes it was something innocuous—a darkened cinema, maybe, or a shattered mug—that broke you down, and it was hard to get back up again regardless.

-/-/-

“This is why.” Q murmured, apropos of nothing.

The worst of the anxiety attack had passed in the hall, and Bond had relocated them to Q’s bed. Q was pressed half into the pillows and half into Bond, flanked by purring cats who were doing their best to comfort him (or were simply taking advantage of two warm bodies on the bed; Bond remained unconvinced of their sympathy, but Q seemed to appreciate them), and had said nothing for over half an hour. Bond was quiet, only stroking his thumb across the nape of Q’s neck to show he was paying attention.

“This is why I don’t do anything more stressful than work at the restaurant. Anything more serious than tinkering, or programming little things. This happens.” Q continued.

“Always?”

“For a long time. I’ve always been… anxious. But I was alright for a bit. Made quite the name for myself as a white hat, actually.” Q paused, “Maybe more of a grey hat. A whitish-grey.”

Bond gave a stunted sort of smile into Q’s hair. Hacking; he knew it. He waited for Q to continue.

“My sister died. A few years ago. I didn’t handle it well. Been a bit of a wreck ever since.” Q sighed, “I’ve read enough to know about stressful events triggering certain disorders, but that’s hardly helpful to me now.”

“Have you ever… talked to anyone?” Bond asked at length; he wasn’t a proponent of psychiatrists at the best of times, but maybe in relation to someone else, someone he cared about– “Thought about maybe taking medication?”

Q’s fingers tightened to claws at the front of Bond’s shirt. “ _No._ ”

Occasionally, no matter what many psychiatrists may have said, Bond did know how to pick his battles. “Alright.”

-/-/-

The week that followed saw Q pretending to be normal so hard that he may have hurt something.

It was clear he didn’t want to discuss what had happened and Bond would have obliged, but when Q’s act hit day seven with no discernible end, Bond couldn’t quite keep his peace.

He waited until they’d settled onto Q’s overstuffed couch for the evening, as calm as they were going to be, before setting his book aside. “Q.”

“Yes?” Q didn’t look up from his laptop, but the fact he’d answered at all was promising in regards to his attention.

“Tell me, if I had a panic attack, would you think less of me?”

Q’s eyes did snap up then, and he frowned across the couch at Bond. “Of course not.”

“Then why are you acting like I think less of you?” It wasn’t an accusation, but an honest question, and Bond did his best to make it sound as such.

“I’m not–”

“You are.” Bond cut in firmly, “Maybe you’re not doing it on purpose, but you’re acting as if you’re afraid to breathe too loudly around me.”

“Well I did mention I was an anxious person.” Q answered peevishly, looking back to his laptop screen, “Have you considered I’ve just been on edge this week?”

Bond refused to entertain the diversion. “I’m not going to leave just because you’re not bloody perfect, Q.”

A peculiar expression passed over Q’s fact, as if he’d put something unpleasant in his mouth; it was an expression Bond had come to associate with Q wanting to argue but being unable to come up with a counter Bond would accept. “Good to know.” Q replied at last, “Are we done now?”

“No. You don’t believe me.” Bond frowned.

“Of course I believe you. So you can drop it.” Q snapped, staring determinedly at his laptop.

Bond slid across the couch and shut the computer before Q could do much more than make a sharp noise of protest. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“Honestly? You’re ridiculous.” Q shook his head.

“Tell me.” Bond demanded, taking one of Q’s hands in his own and squeezing gently.

Q looked down. His hair fell over his eyes—due for a haircut, he’d been saying all month—but Bond was fairly certain he was looking at their joined hands. Q sighed, and it sounded too much like defeat. “I know I’m somewhat lacking in ways; socially, physically. But I always thought that was alright; my mind is my best feature. But even that’s fucking broken.” Q finally looked up to Bond, “What do I have left? Now that you know that, why would you stay?”

Bond’s response was to grab Q’s laptop and dump it on the coffee table just gently enough that Q didn’t immediately lunge for it, and then to capture Q’s other hand. He pulled at Q’s arm until he had no choice but to bodily turn towards Bond on the couch. “You are the same as you have been this whole time.” Bond told him gravely, keeping a grip on Q’s wrists when the other man tugged faintly, “And I love you same as I have this whole time.”

Q’s tugging stopped. “You– you can’t just _say_ things like that–”

“I can. I did.”

“–and you’re not going to fix this with the power of _love_ or whatever the fuck you’re on about!”

“I’m not trying to.” Bond insisted, calm even as Q’s voice rose, “I always knew you were a twitchy little shit, Q. Now I have a better idea of why. Nothing else has changed.”

“I–” Q started, before Bond leaned forward and cut him off with a kiss.

“I do love you. I’m not leaving.” Bond punctuated his statements with another kiss each, pressing closer with each one.

“James…” Q pulled back just far enough to murmur against Bond’s lips, but spoke no further.

Bond released one of Q’s wrists to run anchor a hand in Q’s hair, while Q took the opportunity to grab at the front of Bond’s shirt and tug him ever closer. There hadn’t been much intimate contact between them in the past week, and as tactile as they had become, the loss was sorely felt; now was the time to make up for the deficit, with Bond’s tongue against the roof of Q’s mouth and his hands pulling at his hair and Q gripping Bond’s arm with one hand and shoving up Bond’s shirt with the other just to feel skin on skin. They pulled and pushed, never parting for more than a few breaths, never quite _not_ touching, until Bond was straddling Q’s lap and they were both thoroughly out of air.

“As for everything else you said,” Bond continued as if they hadn’t just taken an extended break in conversation, “Social skills are relative. I don’t give a damn if you win personality contests. Just don’t try to be who you’re not.”

“James…” Q huffed again.

Undeterred, Bond leaned in and pressed another brief kiss to Q’s mouth before trailing down to nip and kiss at his neck. “And physically,” Bond rolled his hips forward, pressing the obvious sign of his arousal low against Q’s belly, “Do you really think you’re not attractive to me?”

“I’m not _un_ attractive.” Q somehow found the presence of mind to mutter, “But I’m not like-“

“If you say you’re not like me, I will stop what I’m doing right now.” Bond growled against Q’s neck.

“Don’t you _dare_.” Q groaned.

-/-/-

“Do you know how my sister died?” Q asked, much later when they were lying in bed.

“Tell me.”

“She overdosed.”

Bond stroked a hand up Q’s arm, never one to offer empty apologies for things he couldn’t change. He doubted Q required much actual input from him for this conversation.

“Our father drank. Had a terrible temper. I think that’s why she started using, but I never asked.” Q’s voice was quiet, but did not waver, “She just wanted to escape. Feel happy.”

She certainly did escape, Bond thought uncharitably, but was hardly stupid enough to say it aloud.

“I tried to help her off of them. She was clean for a bit, off and on. Always fell back into the habit, though.” Q cast about with his hand, finding Doughnut at his side and burying his fingers in the cat’s fur, “Addiction runs in my family. I have my own, but they’re unlikely to kill me as quickly as alcohol and amphetamines.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen to you.” Bond promised.

“But you’re not always around.” Q replied; the statement wasn’t meant to cut, and Bond accepted the truth of it, “Things are okay this way.”

Okay. Not good, but okay.

“Okay.” Bond let the subject rest. One argument was enough for the day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at all this action I can't write. This is the long chapter, in which the climax sort of happens. One more after this!
> 
> Also Q had to have a name; there had to be a reason he was called Q without being... the quartermaster (also he had to be officially addressed). It's used only briefly and you can pretend it doesn't exist if you like

Bond didn’t even think about what he was doing, really, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be concerned about that. A problem for a later time.

He had been trying to do better, to go to medical and at least pretend to listen to their advice, if only to assuage Q’s worries, but it wasn’t his instinct. Certainly not his routine. There were times when, instead, his body would simply carry him home; times when Bond would come to from a fugue of exhaustion and adrenaline and realize he was already in his flat, already in the shower or liquor already in hand. This time, though – this time, his body had led him straight to a cramped little flat that wasn’t exactly his but that he spent all his time in, regardless.

This time, he’d gone straight to Q.

Bond simply rolled his shoulders and finished with the locks, using the keys Q had finally remembered to copy and gift to him on a keyring made from twisted bits of discarded wire. There was no point in pretending he didn’t want to be there, or that he didn’t want for Q’s company and affection. There was something dangerously addictive about the care Q showed Bond, and he needed it now.

Q was sitting at his desk when Bond finally managed to push past the door and the cats, and the smile he turned to point at Bond faded quickly at the sight of him. “Shit.” Q uttered, popping up from his chair and crossing the room in a few short strides, “Shit, James, what happened?”

James offered Q a sardonic little grin, devoid of any real humor. “I’m home.”

“I can see that.” Q snapped, as if it had never even occurred to him to dispute Bond’s claim of ‘home.’

Perhaps it hadn’t.

Q raised his hand and brushed careful fingers along the already colorful bruise marring Bond’s cheek. “Where else are you hurt?” Q demanded, his voice gone sharp with worry.

“Just cuts and bruises, darling.” Bond dismissed his state, feeling more at ease than he’d expected as Q swept around him to take his coat.

“I want to see.” Q insisted, “Your assessment of injuries seems drastically misaligned with proper medical care.”

Bond rolled his eyes, but was already going at his buttons with loose fingers. If he had to be poked and prodded with disinfectant swabs, he found he was rather more agreeable to the idea of Q doing it than anyone else. And it would keep Q close to him, besides. “Where do you want me?” Bond quipped, rolling his tie out of habit and tossing it onto the table by the door.

Without acknowledging the blatant innuendo, Q pointed to the kitchen. “Sit at the table, the light’s best there. I’ll be in in a moment.”

There was no room in Q’s tone for argument, and so Bond moved to the kitchen, shedding his jacket and shirt as he went. The jacket was likely salvageable and Bond slung it over the back of a chair before sitting down; the shirt was more a lost cause, stained in places with blood and dirt, and he simply dropped it on the floor beneath the table. Q came in moments later with a first aid kit Bond had seen him delve into now and then after some engineering pursuit gone wrong. The thing was overstocked and packed with things that definitely didn’t come in a standard first aid kit, and Bond suspected Q of augmenting it in the way he tended to over-prepare for many things. “I think you’re overreacting just a little, Q.”

“You’re still bleeding.” Q pointed out, clipped and sharp as he unerringly honed in on the most serious injury Bond had sustained.

“Off and on.” Bond gave a shrug that tugged uncomfortably at the gash on his side; he’d elected not to attempt stitching it up, as it was in a rather awkward place to reach and, likely as not, it would stop bleeding on its own eventually, “It’s hardly the most serious thing to happen to me.”

“Christ, James, do you even hear yourself?” Q snapped, moving to the sink to scrub his hands, “Just– sit. Just sit there. Let me take care of this.”

 _Let me take care of you_.

Bond stayed in his seat.

-/-/-

Q’s hands were deft and sure, pressing gently at the worst of the bruises to check for hardness, cleaning any stray cuts, and then moving to the gash over Bond’s ribs. Bond watched, bemused, as Q flushed the wound and prepared it for suturing. “This will hurt. But I expect you know that.” Q muttered.

Bond was silent until Q made his way through half the stitches. “You’ve done this before.”

“Not often. And not in a long time.” Q admitted, “But it’s hard to forget.”

“Where did you learn how to do this?”

Q didn’t look up from his work, but his shoulders tensed further. “I told you. My father had a temper.”

It wasn’t quite an explanation, but it was enough for Bond to quiet once more. This was a different Q than he was used to, one who appeared in times of confidence or need. When things were serious, or when Q was quite sure he knew what he was doing, this brusque, unyielding person emerged to take over the proceedings, and Bond couldn’t altogether say he disliked it.

This facet of Q’s personality wasn’t familiar, but it was attractive in how confident it made him – how certain, even cocky, he could be. Bond wondered, now and then, under what circumstances this part of Q might have been his dominant personality trait; what it might have been like to meet him then. Largely, though, he decided he didn’t much care.

Q finished the neat line of stitches and bandaged the wound without another word, moving to the garbage can to dispose of his supplies and gloves. “James.” Q didn’t look up from the bin, but his posture was tense, “You’re not a salesman.”

Foolishly, perhaps, Bond had hoped this conversation would happen later – or never. “As far as you’re concerned, I am.” He said firmly.

“James–”

“No. The less you know about what I do, the safer you are.”

“And how am I meant to keep _you_ safe?” Q demanded, stalking back up to Bond, “If you keep me in the dark, how can I help?”

“You’re not supposed to help.” Bond snapped, taking Q by the shoulders as he stood, “You’re not supposed to get involved!”

“I’m already involved!” Q’s voice rose as Bond’s did, though he made no move to shake Bond’s hold, “And I’m not just going to sit back and let you come back to me in pieces – if you come back at all!”

Coming to Q’s flat had been a mistake, Bond realized; hell, he’d known it even as he unlocked the door, but even now he couldn’t quite regret it. “If you want to help, keep doing this.” Bond gestured to himself, to the bandage Q had placed, to the flat at large, “Stay here. Stay safe. Be here for me to come back to.”

“Do nothing, you mean.” Q sneered.

“This isn’t _nothing_.” Bond growled, “This is everything to me. I’ve been more careful since I met you, do you realize? I haven’t tried this hard to make it home in years – because of you. Because you’re _here_ , I want to come back.”

Q blinked, taken aback by the declaration. “I…”

“This isn’t nothing.” Bond repeated, squeezing Q’s shoulders.

Q said nothing for a long moment, searching Bond’s face with the same intensity he applied to electronics before stripping them down to their bare components. “I want to know if something happens.” He said at last, quiet and firm, “I want to be notified. I won’t be left in the dark, wondering why you never came home to me. Promise me that, at least.”

The idea pulled at Bond’s heart; an image of Q, anxious and alone, waiting for Bond to come back when he never would, came to his mind. Bond nodded. “I’ll make it happen.”

Q softened, just a fraction, his muscles loosening slightly beneath Bond’s palms and his expression losing some of its intensity. There was a shadow of something, still sitting in Q’s eyes behind the relief of Bond’s acquiescence, but Bond was too tired and too riled to identify it. Instead, Bond drew Q in, one hand on the nape of his neck, the other moving down and around to his back, pulling him nearer until their mouths met.

The kiss was tender at the start, soft and briefly reverent, Q’s hands gentle over Bond’s bruises and Bond still marveling just a little at the care and love Q showed for him, but before long it became slick and filled with want. The adrenaline of the argument mingled with the leftover rush of Bond’s mission and his hands began to wander with intent while Q pushed himself fractionally closer.

“Well,” Bond breathed when they broke apart briefly, “Now you’ve patched up all the cuts and bruises, are you going to care for the rest of me?”

Q’s grin caught somewhere between exasperated and eager, eyes darting down to the visible beginnings of Bond’s arousal. “I think I can manage that.”

-/-/-

The sight of Q straddling him, rising and falling on shaking thighs as he rode Bond’s cock, was not something Bond was treated to often. Despite all Bond’s efforts, Q was still not altogether certain about giving Bond an unrestricted view of him while they fucked; he was forever pulling Bond closer, kneeling or bending in such a way that parts of himself were always obstructed, and distracting Bond with demanding kisses.

But there were days like today – days when Q would press Bond back into the pillows and tell him to stay before working himself incrementally down on Bond’s cock and putting on rather a good show for someone so self-conscious.

In this case, Q had told Bond to lay back so as not to strain any of his injuries—or to undo any of Q’s hard work—but Bond would hardly be picky. Instead, he enjoyed what he was given, rubbing his palms down Q’s sides and over his hips, pressing his fingertips into the flesh of Q’s arse and feeling the flex of muscle there as Q moved. “Christ but you’re lovely.” Bond muttered wonderingly.

The breathless start of a laugh bubbled up from Q’s chest, ending as more of a groan. “I’ll bet you say that to all the young men who stitch you up and ride you.”

“Just the loveliest ones.” Bond thumbed at the sharp edges of Q’s hips, “Just you.”

Another sharp noise was punched from Q as Bond snapped his hips up, very nearly causing Q’s legs to buckle. “You’re supposed to stay _still_.” Q admonished, too husky to really sound displeased.

“Can’t,” Bond decided, “Not when I’ve got you here,” He urged Q up, thrusting again as Q sank back down, “In my lap,” He rolled his hips, “Riding my cock – _fuck_ , Q.”

“James…” Q’s hands gripped tight at Bond’s shoulders; he bent forward to kiss Bond where he was propped up against the headboard, shivering as his prick dragged and pressed against Bond’s stomach.

Bond returned the kiss, close and heavy and wet, until Q pulled back with a gasp, a noise that might have been a whine stuck in his throat when Bond thrusted up into him from the new angle. “Are you going to come like this, Q?” Bond rasped as Q ground down against him, “Take everything I give you and come screaming from it?”

“Your dirty talk is still terrible.” Q huffed, though he still sounded fond, “I’ve told you, I don’t— _ah_ —scream.”

“You don’t?” Bond paused in his actions, and Q gave a sort of indignant noise until Bond placed his hand in the center of Q’s chest and pushed back, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Q asserted, catching on quickly to Bond’s intent and leaning back, shifting his weight until he was bracing himself against Bond’s thighs, “I don’t – _fuck!_ ”

Bond grinned, giving another short thrust. “Absolutely certain?”

Q narrowed his eyes at Bond, equal parts challenge and bliss as he began to roll his hips to meet Bond’s. “That wasn’t… wasn’t a— _oh, fuck_ —scream.”

“But we’re getting there.”

Bond wrapped his hands around Q’s thighs, holding tight and restricting his movement until he was fucking up into Q with quick measured thrusts. There was no more banter as Bond focused on pulling as much noise from Q as possible, while Q found himself unable to do much more than give short jerks of his hips and grab at Bond’s legs for balance. He no longer bothered to hold in any sounds, pushed past the limit of insecurity and giving out all manner of lewd pleas.

Muscles burning in the best way, Bond ignored the underlying ache of his cuts and bruises and watched as Q tilted his head back, words still coming out in a breathless rush— _god yes, James, fuck, there, right there, yes, YES, James, FUCK_ —and came almost the moment he managed to pull his hand from Bond’s leg and wrap it around his own cock.

Bond was helpless to do anything but follow.

-/-/-

“Didn’t scream.” Q huffed against the pillow, still regaining his breath.

“You were quite loud.” Bond insisted, pulling Q close to him once more, “One day, I’ll make it so you won’t be able to deny it. Suck you, lick you open, finger you, make you come so many times that when I slide in, you won’t be able to do anything but wail and writhe…”

Q’s chest hitched, an irregular breath against the even pattern he’d only just established, and his fingers tensed for a moment where they were wrapped around Bond’s wrist. “You’re certainly welcome to try.” He murmured, “Keep coming home and you can do anything you want.”

Bond stroked his thumb over Q’s waist, where his hand rested. “Anything?”

Q licked his lips and looked up at Bond, something in his eyes pushing his meaning far past simple lust. “Anything. Just come back to me.”

Bond leaned in, pressed a kiss to Q’s lips, and whispered against him, “I will do everything I can to always come back to you.”

-/-/-

Q was up to something.

Bond wasn’t sure what, and he didn’t have much proof beyond a few occurrences out of the ordinary and his own gut feeling, but Q was definitely up to something.

Nearly three months had passed since their argument about Bond’s work, and Q seemed almost suspiciously at ease with the agreement they had come to.

He still worried, of course; sent Bond off with a deep kiss and the usual entreaty, “Come home, James.”, but he was no longer restless over it. He frowned at Bond’s wounds (largely minor, Bond would point out with something like smugness) and welcomed him home with a grateful embrace, but had lost the desperate, anxious edge that had haunted him in the weeks leading up to their argument.

It was wonderful, having someone steady, someone who loved him, to come home to, but Bond didn’t believe for one minute that Q was content to simply sit around and wait for him to return from a mission.

That wasn’t the man Bond had fallen in love with. It just wasn’t _Q_.

Q spent more time on his computer than anything, neglecting some of the other projects he’d been tinkering with, but brushed off Bond’s inquiries.

“It’s just a personal project.” He’d said, “Nothing terribly exciting.”

Nothing terribly exciting, just something that consumed every ounce of attention not devoted to his job or Bond. Bond couldn’t quite bring himself to suspect Q of anything untoward; whatever Q was doing, Bond had no doubt Q at least thought it was a good idea. Whether it actually _was_ , well–

Q was up to something, and Bond was going to find out what.

-/-/-

Bond found out much sooner than he’d anticipated.

It was a dull day at work, Bond’s attention devoted to reading some of the reports and intelligence that had begun to pile up in his inbox; hardly the glamorous work some of the starry-eyed new recruits seemed to think the double-0’s engaged in, but important nonetheless. That did not mean, however, that Bond didn’t welcome the distraction that Q’s call to his personal mobile provided him.

“Good morning, Q.” Bond greeted.

“ _James_ ,” There was no warmth or familiarity in Q’s voice, only a sharp sense of gravity that made Bond sit up straight in his chair, “ _Do you know a man called Sasha Petrov?”_

Bond frowned. “I do. How do _you_ know that name, Q?”

“ _He’s on my watch list. He’s also in London.”_ Q answered tersely.

Bond took a moment to parse what he’d just been told. He was used to split second decision making, but this situation was jarring at best. “He’s on _our_ watch list, Q. We’d know if he entered London.” Bond had no reason to doubt Q’s competency, but he also had no experience with it in regards to his own work. What in the hell had Q been doing?

“ _My watch list is considerably smaller than MI6’s, but longer than it should be – you’ve pissed off a lot of people, James. And you wouldn’t have picked him up because he’s gotten a new name and some rather spectacular burn scars on his face_.” Q trailed off for a moment, as if distracted by the gruesome pictures that were no doubt on his screens, “ _They’re enough that they would have thrown off the facial recognition software you’re working with, but not mine_.”

“What do you mean, not yours?” Bond snapped.

“ _I mean I took MI6’s software and I made it better. It picked up Petrov shortly after he came into London earlier this morning. And it looks like he’s heading- oh.”_

“Q?” Bond gripped his phone, already half out of his seat with the sudden anticipation coursing through him.

“ _It looks like he may be heading here.”_ Q continued, his voice gone a bit brittle.

“ _What?_ ” Bond was up and towards the door before he realized he was moving, “Q, get out of there.”

“ _Yes, just– just a moment_.” Some rustling came through in the background of the call and Bond let out a noise of frustration that completely cleared his path to the lift.

“Now, Q!”

“ _I’m going!”_ Q snapped, “ _I’m shutting my systems down, if he gets his hands on anything here–”_

“I don’t give a damn about your systems, get the fuck out of there!” Bond growled, darting through the doors of the lift before they’d even finished opening on the garage level and dashing for his car.

“ _I’m out, I’m on the stairs.”_ Q assured him, quiet and tense.

“Good. Get out of the building, get as far away as possible and _stay hidden_. I’m on my way.” Bond tossed his phone into the passenger seat and hit the ignition, listening as his mobile connected to the car’s bluetooth and Q’s voice came through the speakers.

“ _I expected him to go to your place, but it’s not too far from here and he turned the wrong way… James,”_ Q was still muttering to him while the sound of his footsteps clattered around the stairwell in the background, _“If he knows about my flat…_ ”

“Then we assume he knows who you are.” Bond finished tersely, “Are you out yet?”

 _“I’m going around to the fire door. He was already close when I left, so– oh,_ shit.”

“Q?” Bond stomped the accelerator, violating any and every traffic law applicable in his efforts to reach the flat, “Q, answer me!”

Q’s breath had gone heavy, the sound of exertion and shoes hitting the pavement coming through the car speakers. “ _They saw me._ ”

“ _Shit._ ”

-/-/-

God bless Q’s paranoid sense of direction.

Bond hadn’t even thought to grab for a headset of any kind and was forced to hang up his mobile and stuff it in his pocket to keep both hands free. Before he’d hung up, Q had breathlessly reported he was two blocks west of the flat, and Bond had taken off.

Two men, plus Petrov, Q had told Bond as he ran, just before Bond pulled up to their building. Bond couldn’t imagine Petrov being much of a physical threat, considering the state Bond had left him in when they last met (spectacular burn scars indeed), but whatever men Petrov had hired were bound to be dangerous.

It was with this in mind that Bond sprinted around the mid-morning crowds of the city, simultaneously cursing and cheering Q for having chosen to go in this direction; doubtless he’d known it would be crowded and assumed that would hinder any attempts to spot and capture him – but damned if it wasn’t hindering Bond by a bit. He guessed Q hadn’t had as much trouble; Bond had seen him weaving in and out of people during rushes at the restaurant as if he had a preternatural sense for where they were. Bond kept an eye out for any signs of Q or his pursuers and hoped Q would keep that sense about him and keep far away from Petrov and his men.

Probably a vain hope, Bond realized as he halted at an alley he’d nearly run right past.

The sounds of a scuffle were coming from within, punctuated by the unmistakable sound of Q’s voice raised in angered panic. “Get off me! _Get the fuck–”_ The exclamation broke off in a grunt, and guesses as to why threatened to addle Bond’s mind with rage.

He gave himself a brief shake and cleared his head; he would do Q no favors by rushing in in blind anger. Instead, Bond pulled his gun from the holster tucked neatly beneath his jacket and crept into the alley, quick and quiet.

“Stop _squirming_.” Someone demanded – Petrov, Bond realized. The last time he’d heard the man, Petrov had been screaming after Bond had shoved him head-first through a burning wall in an old hotel in Russia.

Apparently, Bond would need to try a little harder to kill him this time.

“You are meant to be bait for 007, we are not going to kill you. At least, not yet.” Petrov insisted as the sounds of Q struggling against his captors continued.

“Is that meant to reassure me?” Q’s voice had gone rough with anger and exertion, but Bond could hear the threat of shrill hysteria threatening to edge in from his position behind a Dumpster a few feet away.

Bond chanced an assessing glance over the top of Dumpster and found that no one was yet looking in his direction. Q was being held firm between Petrov’s henchmen, though he didn’t pose much of a threat to even one of the men, never mind two; Petrov himself stood before them, gesticulating with a gun, and Bond reckoned the pose was entirely for dramatic effect. Petrov was a showy bastard, but never much for tactical planning – neither of Petrov’s men would have been able to shoot without letting Q go, and Petrov wasn’t even aiming his own weapon.

Style over substance, Bond shook his head. He cocked his gun and stepped out from behind the Dumpster.

-/-/-

What followed was surely one of the more anticlimactic showdowns Bond had participated in – no matter how satisfying it was to put a bullet in Petrov’s brain.

Bond put the thought aside as he dropped to his knees beside Q, who was sitting between the bodies of his would-be captors, looking a bit stunned. “Are you alright?” Bond demanded, placing one hand on Q’s shoulder and the other on the side of his neck, using his thumb to push up gently against the underside of Q’s jaw so Bond could examine his face.

Q took a deep breath and let it out slowly, glaring up at Bond. “Do I _look_ alright?”

He didn’t, of course he didn’t; his glasses were lying broken a ways up the alley, a couple of scratches down Q’s cheek suggesting he’d landed on them, at the same time receiving the nasty, bloody scrape along his cheek and jaw. His face was something of a gory mess, his clothes scuffed and dirty from his time on the ground, but his eyes, at least, were clear.

“You look terrible.” Bond confirmed, though he was fighting the smallest smile of relief.

“Thank you for that.” Q grumbled, though he sobered as he looked past Bond to where Petrov’s body laid, “Someone will have heard the shots. You may want to call your employer.”

Bond’s face fell into a more pensive frown, holding onto Q a moment longer before reaching for the phone in his pocket. “We are going to talk about all of this later. The list, the facial recognition software…”

“If I hadn’t done all of that, I’d probably be dead by now.” Q pointed out sharply.

Bond’s remaining hand tightened on Q’s shoulder, but loosened immediately at the slight wince Q gave. “The ends justify the means, then?” Bond cocked an eyebrow in question.

Q glanced around, squinting slightly in shortsighted consideration. “In this case,” He looked back to Bond, “There were probably worse outcomes.”

Bond hummed, leaned forward to press a brief kiss to Q’s forehead, then stood to make his call.

-/-/-

“Did you really have to bring your brand of chaos back to England?” Tanner sighed as he approached Bond.

Bond shifted his stance into something bordering on defensive, broadcasting fully that he had no intent to be removed from Q’s side. “I certainly didn’t invite Petrov to London. He ought to’ve been dead.” He replied, his mild tone belying his body language.

“Well you’ve taken care of that now, I see.” Tanner glanced back to where the bodies of Sasha Petrov and his henchmen were being carted off, “And who is this?”

The question was aimed at Q, who was in the process of having his face cleaned and dressed by a paramedic. Q glanced over at Tanner, then turned slightly to look at Bond, who nodded back at Q. “Michael Quagliariello,” Q said at last, causing the medic to tsk, “Pardon me for not shaking.”

It was always odd to hear Q’s full name; he had never much cared for his given name, he’d told Bond, and his last name had been shortened to a much more manageable ‘Q’ sometime in his youth. He’d supposed there was probably still distant family of his father’s somewhere in Italy, but he had no desire to contact them. For all intents and purposes, Q was always just… Q.

“Don’t worry about it.” Tanner waved off Q’s vague apology, “My name is Bill Tanner. I’m going to have to ask that you come with me when the paramedics have finished with you.”

Q attempted a nod, but the medic still working at his scrapes clucked her tongue and placed a stilling hand on his chin. “Right. James told me I’d likely have to come in.”

Tanner glanced at Bond, who offered no response beyond reaching over to take Q’s hand. Tanner’s brows went up.

“Well.” He said after a moment, “I suppose we’re in for an interesting afternoon.”

-/-/-

Mallory stared at Q from across his desk.

To Q’s credit, he neither fidgeted nor looked away, though Bond suspected he was rather in shock from the day’s events.

“So, if I have this correct, you claim to have broken into our systems, taken information relevant to Agent Bond’s missions within the last two years, and copied our facial recognition program. You then claim to have synthesized a list of any persons from Agent Bond’s mission files who either escaped or whose bodies were never found using both their photographs and all known aliases, edited the aforementioned facial recognition program, and put it all together in such a way that you would know if anyone who wished Agent Bond harm were to enter the country.

You claim to have broken into our systems at least once, evaded our network security analysts, and broken a frankly astounding number of laws. And you claim to have done all of this to keep Agent Bond safe. Does that sound right?” Mallory, curiously, did not sound as though he was particularly upset by any of what Q had admitted to, but instead rather interested.

This was, perhaps, the reason Q did not make any further attempt to defend his actions and simply nodded. “That’s correct.”

Mallory went back to staring for a few moments longer. “Well,” He said at last, “All of that would be very impressive and staggeringly illegal if it were true.”

Q’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Um–”

Bond was quick to put his foot out and give Q’s own a slight kick, rendering Q momentarily silent.

“As we have no evidence that what you claim to have done has actually taken place, it obviously cannot have. If you think you are capable of such things, however, it is quite fortunate that we have been alerted to your considerable talent through a completely legitimate and unavoidable series of events.” Mallory concluded.

“Um.” Bond was beginning to wonder if Q wasn’t a bit broken.

“Someone who would hypothetically be willing to do such things sounds as though they would be quite loyal and a great asset, if not someone who carefully considers the consequences of their actions.” Mallory cocked an eyebrow at Q, who made a noise somewhere between clearing his throat and outright choking, and Mallory continued, “Thus, I feel I must extend to you an offer of employment, Mr. Quagliariello. Q branch would be delighted to have you. Really, this is a far preferable outcome to if you had actually done all those things you claim to have done, because I really don’t want to consider how Agent Bond would react to us placing his partner in prison.”

The implication was so clear even Q could see it. “I… would like to accept your offer of employment, sir.” Q’s voice had only a very slight waver to it.

“Excellent.” Mallory nodded, “Tanner will work out the details with you, though likely not today. As both your home addresses have been compromised, you’ll be taken to a safe house for the time being and we’ll move forward from there.”

Both Q and Bond were dismissed thereafter, though Bond expected he could look forward to a dressing down for leaving a potential weak point like Q vulnerable for so long (and for letting a civilian suss out his identity, rather than being informed through proper protocol). As soon as they’d left the stuffy confines of Mallory’s office, Bond’s arm was linked with Q’s, as it had been since they left for headquarters earlier that day. If asked, Bond would likely say it was to keep Q from running into anything, as Q was still without glasses, but they both saw it for what it really was: a protective and possessive gesture, and both a symbolic and very literal statement that Bond would not be letting go of Q any time soon.

Though Q had been largely holding himself upright and as independent of Bond as possible, he did allow himself to press into the warmth of Bond’s side just then. “What just happened?” He blinked at their surroundings in short-sighted confusion, perhaps luckily missing the way Moneypenny was smirking at them from her desk.

Bond smirked. “The best possible outcome of this whole bloody mess, Q.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wrap-up, featuring the blowjob that was supposed to happen back at the beginning and refused to happen until the last minute. _Warning for brief description of an anxiety attack (nothing to do with the blowjob)_
> 
> So this is it! Despite the things I wasn't happy with in this story, you've all been so kind and encouraging as I was posting and that's been so wonderful! Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to leave a comment or kudos or to bookmark this story, it's really made my week <3 I hope everyone enjoys the final installment

The only moves Q made once they’d secured the safe house and he and Bond were finally alone, were to release Steve and Doughnut from their carriers and go to sit on the floor of the sparse sitting area.

It was quieter than Bond expected Q to be at this point, but he gave Q the time to sort out what he wanted to do. In the meantime, Bond dropped their luggage—the necessities they’d gathered from Q’s flat before heading to the safe house—in the bedroom and moved Q’s laptop bag from its place by the door to prop it up against the couch within Q’s reach. He rummaged through the basic first aid kit in the bathroom and found a few packets of generic acetaminophen and placed those within Q’s reach as well.

The kitchen, a tiny space set apart from the sitting area only by a low half wall, had been stocked with basic groceries for them, though the variety was abysmal. Bond was stuck choosing between English breakfast tea and decaffeinated green; he’d never seen Q drink either, but supposed Q didn’t need any more stimulants for the day and opted for the green.

With the tea as good as he was able to make it, Bond moved into the sitting area, placed the cup of tea on the floor at Q’s right hand, then sat down beside him and prepared to shoo away any curious cats who came to stick their faces in the cup – he’d seen Doughnut burn his nose twice on hot tea, but Q would hear no aspersions cast on the beast’s intelligence.

They sat quietly for a short while, the sounds of the building settling around them the only thing to break the silence, before Q spoke at last. “I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”

“I rather assumed.” Bond replied mildly.

“I never would have engaged. Not– you have to know that was never my intention. I have no aspirations of… of being a _secret agent_ or anything.” Q shook his head slightly, “I only meant for the program to alert me when someone who might wish you harm entered the country, so that I could call you and let you know. Traveling out to meet danger is one thing, but I thought– If you didn’t have to be blind on home soil…”

“You could have been caught.” Bond knew he was speaking as a hypocrite, that he did things against the rules (against the law) all the time, but it was _different_ when it came to Q, “They could have caught you breaking into our systems and sent you away.”

“I know. I knew!” Q let out a humorless shout of a laugh, “I knew that when I started but you were worth that risk, I thought. I knew you were.”

Bond glanced over at Q, though Q appeared to be staring at his hands. “Q…”

“But this– this got obscenely out of hand, honestly, I never thought I would have to do anything beyond call you and tell you there was a bloody terrorist in the country and that you, I don’t  know, might want to consider taking care of it. Instead they made me fucking bait!” Q swatted viciously at the floor.

Bond reached out for Q, but thought better of it. “You were hardly _bait_.”

“I was bait for a good two minutes there. If you hadn’t been on your way, I very much would have been bait or worse, and– and now I’m supposed to work for MI6! That is a fucking awful idea! I can’t work for MI6, I’d make a terrible spy! I can barely lie to guests at the restaurant when they ask if I like the _fish_!” Q’s voice was hitching at odd intervals and _here_ was the anxiety attack Bond had honestly expected to happen much earlier.

Taking a moment to move the neglected cup of tea, Bond scooted across the short space between himself and Q, took Q’s hand and squeezed it. “You’re not going to be a spy; you’re going to work with computers.” He pointed out.

“I’m going to _spy_ on people with computers! Probably. I don’t– And I have anxiety attacks! I am currently _having_ an anxiety attack! I am a fucking massive mess of anxiety all the bloody time and the first time this happens at work, they’re going to send me to jail!”

Q’s hand was trembling in Bond’s. “No one is going to send you to jail–”

“They will, though.” Q insisted, his voice cracking in upset, “They will because I’m fucking _useless_ and–”

“You are _not_.” Bond reached over and cupped the undamaged side of Q’s face to turn it towards him, “You are not useless, Q.”

Q didn’t attempt to refute Bond’s claim, though that might have had more to do with the advancing anxiety attack than it did with Q’s belief in Bond. His chest was heaving and his eyes were wide and wet behind the spare pair of glasses he’d picked up when they stopped by his flat; the scrapes along the side of his face and jaw had been bandaged and his cuts closed with steristrips, but that hardly lessened how overall wrecked Q looked. Bond stroked a thumb over Q’s cheek, briefly pushing the frame of his glasses up and out of the way.

“Okay,” Bond said, “Okay. There’s nothing more we can do now, so I think it’s time to rest.”

Though Q frowned, he allowed himself to be tugged and arranged until Bond was sitting behind him, pressed back to chest, his head leaned back against Bond’s shoulder. Bond kept his breathing even and steady and was gratified when Q began to mirror him after a short time. “Alright.” Bond hummed, “Just rest.”

-/-/-

“We have psychologists on staff, you know.” Bond’s hips were sore and his back was stiff and he would bet Q felt even worse for once, yet they made no move to get up off the floor.

“I imagine you would.” Q replied quietly, his voice rough from all the shouting earlier in the day, maybe, or from the anxiety attack only recently finished, “People doing jobs like yours, psychologists would be prudent.”

“Of course, you don’t have to imagine, you’ve seen my file.” Bond pointed out, more observation than accusation.

Q was quiet for a short while. “I glanced over your file. I won’t pretend I wasn’t curious, but I largely just went through more recent missions for the necessary information. I didn’t dig into your physical or psychological evaluations. I _did_ see that you often skip or reschedule your evaluations.” Q’s head twitched against Bond’s chest, as if he meant to look up at Bond but gave it up as too much work, “And here you are encouraging me to go.”

“Field agents require a certain level of mental instability, I think. Psych doesn’t seem to appreciate that.”

“If I didn’t know you, that would be a very concerning statement.”

Bond bit back his instinctive reply, instead pulling the conversation back on topic. “At least consider it.”

“James…” Q sighed.

“I would never lose you to any kind of drug. You know I would help you stay on track.”

There were any number of biting replies to that, Bond’s own issues with substance abuse (his recent success in curbing his alcohol consumption around Q aside) was certainly at the top of the list, yet Q seemed disinclined to throw it back at him. Taking this as a good sign, Bond tightened his arms gently around Q’s waist and broke out the big guns: “Please, Q.”

A pause.

“I’ll think about it.”

-/-/-

Q hissed as he haltingly pulled his shirt over his head, dropping his arms back down to his sides as soon as he was able.  “Should have grabbed the arnica from my first aid kit.”

Bond looked over Q’s torso in the dim light of the bedroom and knew that if Petrov and his men were not already dead, he would be gunning for them now. There were messy splashes of bruising over Q’s belly and ribs, along with another nasty patch covering his shoulder where he’d been tackled to the ground; if Bond were a poetic man, the bruises might have been watercolor pinks and purples on the paper-white of Q’s skin.

As it was, they were just ugly reminders of how vulnerable Bond had left Q and of the pain he was presently in.

“We’ll pick some up tomorrow.” Bond said, his voice gone low.

The tone was enough to make Q turn to look and Bond, considering him for a moment before putting a hand out. “Maybe you can distract me?” Q offered.

He didn’t have to ask twice; Bond took the two steps necessary to bring him into Q’s space, taking Q’s hand in one of his own and bringing the free one up to rest gently on the back of Q’s neck. He leaned in and brought their mouths together, soft in deference to the cuts and scrapes on Q’s face, and Q responded immediately, urging Bond to press in just a little harder and sucking at his lower lip.

All at once, Bond was immensely grateful for this man, who knew what Bond was and had tried to keep him safe, who had been pursued and attacked by a gun runner that morning and still stood tall, who had seen Bond shoot three men dead and still turned to him for comfort, who had very neatly become almost everything to Bond. Bond pulled back from Q’s mouth with a shallow gasp and urged Q back towards the bed.

“Lie back.” Bond instructed.

Another few minutes were spent at Q’s lips, licking into his mouth and familiarizing himself with it all over again until his hips were hitching against the thigh Bond had pressed between his legs. Only then did Bond pull away, ignoring Q’s protesting groan, and move to pepper feather-light kisses across the taped cuts on Q’s cheek and down over the bandages covering his scrapes. He laved heavier kisses down Q’s neck and became gentler again at the bruise on Q’s shoulder, changing again to barely-there brushes of the lips to cover the abused length of Q’s torso.

“You know, that doesn’t actually work, no matter what your mother told you.” Q sighed, though he didn’t sound entirely displeased.

“Shush.” Bond reached Q’s belly button and dipped his tongue in teasingly before he busied his fingers with the zip of Q’s trousers, “I’m working up to my distraction.”

-/-/-

Bond found that his favorite thing about having sex with Q changed routinely. It was the way he babbled, or the way he sounded crying out Bond’s name when he came, or the way his fingers felt on Bond’s skin, or the way his arse felt around Bond’s cock; but today, it was how wonderfully responsive he was.

“James,” Q gasped, “James, _please_.”

Bond hummed around Q’s prick and Q gave another reflexive attempt to jerk his hips up into Bond’s mouth, thwarted by the strong hand anchoring him to the bed. Q moaned as Bond pulled up, sucking hard at Q’s length and pulling off with a wet noise. Bond took his hand from Q’s hip and wrapped it around his spit-slicked cock, letting Q fuck into his grip for a few moments before pressing Q back to the bed with his other hand.

“Are you close?” Bond asked, grinning at Q’s frustrated groan.

“Ye-es.” Q’s voice cracked the word in half when Bond leaned back down to swipe his tongue over the head of Q’s cock, “ _Yes._ ”

Q was panting as Bond licked a stripe back up the underside of his erection and swallowed him back down, taking him down near to the base so quickly Q gave a shout. “ _Fuck!_ Oh, fuck _me_.”

Bond’s rote response— _maybe later_ —went unvoiced in favor of relaxing his throat to take Q all the way in and swallow around him, resulting in a keening noise that went straight to Bond’s own cock, throbbing hard and still in his trousers. Angling for another of those noises, Bond redoubled his efforts, bobbing his head along Q’s shaft and bringing his free hand down to cup it over Q’s balls, rolling them gently in his palm.

“ _James_.” Oh, but Bond’s name sounded so nice when Q moaned it like that. Bond hummed again and Q gave another choked exclamation, his hands fluttering around Bond’s head before, unable to find a good grip, he buried them in the bedding. “James, _shit_ …”

When Q was shaking beneath his hands and his balls were drawing up tight in his palm, Bond ducked down to take Q fully into his mouth once more and sucked as he pushed two fingers hard against Q’s perineum, and was gratified when Q came with a wordless cry.

He sucked Q through his orgasm and then pulled back to give Q’s prick a few more pulls until he was shivering and oversensitive and pushing hazily at Bond’s hand. Only then did Bond pull back entirely, moving to unzip his own trousers and take his cock in hand.

Stroking quickly, Bond was already heading for the edge when Q lifted his head to watch him for a moment, eyes glassy and hair mussed and lips bitten red. After another moment, he reached out to wrap his hand over Bond’s and squeeze just right around his cock, and it took barely any time at all after that for Bond to come, spending himself over Q’s thigh and hip.

Q returned Bond’s favor, moving his hand along Bond’s cock until it was nearly too much, and stopped only when Bond moved to drop down onto the mattress beside Q. “Distracted, then?” He panted.

“From what?” Q slurred back.

Bond chuckled and leaned in to press a kiss to Q’s shoulder.

-/-/-

“It’s nothing to do with all this,” Q gestured to his face, “It just rather unhappily coincided with my job offer.”

Q’s assurances did not put any color back into his manager’s face. “You’re… you’re certain you’ll be alright?” The man asked.

“I’ll be fine. This is what I’ve been wanting, Desmond. How often have I been told to actually go out and do something with my skills?”

“That’s not what I–” Desmond cut himself off, shaking his head, “Yes, alright. I’ll be sorry to see you go, Q. You’re one of my favorites, you know.”

Q gave a wan smirk. “I’ll come back and see you all sometime. With all the money I’ll make at my ‘fancy computer job’.”

Bond assumed this was some sort of running joke as Desmond gave a brief chuckle and flicked a look off to the side, where Bond was waiting patiently. “Or just have your gentleman friend pay, hm? He seemed happy to keep coming in when you were working here.”

“Oh, no, I’m taking James with me. He was my regular; it’s my right.” Q shook his head, more genuinely amused now.

“Ah, well. Good luck, Q.” Desmond put out his hand and Q took it to shake.

Walking back to the car, Q listed slightly into Bond’s side, the way he did when he was upset but wouldn’t say. Bond put his arm obligingly around Q’s shoulders. “It’s not as though I’d have been able to stay even if I wasn’t going to work elsewhere.” Q said quietly, “If they knew where I lived then they knew where I worked.”

It had occurred to Q when they went out that morning for arnica cream and something edible for breakfast that he would have to quit his job at the restaurant. Best to rip the bandage off and do it right then, he’d decided, but had seemed so unhappy about it that Bond had followed Q in as unsolicited moral support.

“Better this way all around.” Q concluded.

Bond said nothing, and squeezed at Q’s shoulder in an effort at comfort.

-/-/-

“Everyone was staring at my face. All day. Maybe not all day. People definitely noticed.” Q insisted.

“It’s only been a week. You’ll heal.” Bond pointed out reasonably; it was possible the cuts from where Q’s glasses had broken would leave thin scars, but the scrapes were shallow enough that they would likely leave little more than a briefly lingering redness.

“I was so sure they would all know why I was there.” Q continued, as if Bond hadn’t spoken, “That they’d know I was there as an alternative to bloody prison. Or they would think that I got in because I’m shagging you.”

To be fair, MI6 probably wouldn’t have learned about Q had he and Bond not been shagging, but Bond refrained from pointing that out.

“And it was so _overwhelming_. Christ, so many screens, so much tech, so many things to _do_.” Q reached up and ran a hand through his hair.

“Was it really so terrible?” Bond asked, scooting closer to Q on the sofa.

“Terrible?” Q looked over at Bond, “No, it was _brilliant_. Have you even _seen_ Q branch, James? It’s amazing, there’s so much potential there. And they’re going to let me loose on the facial recognition software, so I can improve it. Free reign, they said. Within limits.”

Bond didn’t even quite realize there was a grin spreading over his face until Q stopped mid-ramble. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited. I’m not sure if I should be insulted.”

“Honestly? I’m terrified.” Q shook his head, reaching for Bond’s hand, “But certainly not… unhappy.”

Bond turned his hand to lace his fingers into Q’s. “Well, it’s a start.”

-/-/-

Q dropped another box on the coffee table before flopping down onto the couch with a huff.

“Alright?” Bond leaned over the back of the couch to prod gently at Q.

Flapping his hand at Bond, Q let out another heavy breath. “This endeavor is challenging my ability to think of myself as in shape.” He grumbled.

“You used to carry things for a living, Q.”

“I was a _server_ , not a _mover_.”

“Well, we’re almost done.” Bond assured Q, “And we’ll be done all the sooner if you get your arse up off the couch and help me with the last of the boxes.”

Q made another vague grumbling noise but levered himself off the sofa all the same. “I’m still having trouble with the idea that we live here now. This place is bigger than the house I grew up in.”

Bond was far past being picky about where he lived; his only real requirements were that it be easily secured and that it contain Q. Everything else, he’d nudged Q into deciding in hopes they’d end up with something that made him happy. Bond moved around couch to grab Q by the waist before he could leave to get the rest of their things from the truck, pulling him in close. “It’s nice, though, you think? Room for your furry little beasts to run around a bit, a bigger kitchen for all those appliances I know you want to gut, an actual workshop…”

“All ours.” Q finished for him, tilting his head up in a request for a kiss Bond was unable to deny.

“Tell me again why we couldn’t hire movers, though?” Q murmured against Bond’s mouth when they paused for air, “If we can afford this place, surely we could have afforded some help.”

“We didn’t hire movers because I want to christen the flat as soon as we’ve finished bringing our things in, and I don’t want to have to contend with hired hands when I could just have my hands on you.” Bond slid his hands down from where they’d been resting on Q’s back to cup his bottom instead, “I want to have you on every available surface here as soon as we’re done.”

“No unpacking?” Q questioned innocently, though he was already pressing himself further against Bond.

“Sod unpacking.”

-/-/-

The flat was dark when Bond came through the door, and something about it set him on edge. It was barely 2200; late enough for Q to be home from work, but far too early for him to have gone to bed, never mind the fact he couldn’t remember to shut the lights off when he left a room to save his life.

Bond’s mission, a week-long waste of time if there ever was one, had gone so smoothly that the application of a double-0 had seemed laughable by the end; any competent field agent would have been able to carry it out, and the residual adrenaline never expended filled Bond with an itchy sort of unease. It was possible, then, that he was imagining the unpleasant, out-of-place feeling to the flat as he reset the alarms system, and yet–

And yet, he wasn’t willing to take the chance.

Hand to the weapon he hadn’t yet checked in, Bond cleared the flat quickly and efficiently, flicking the lights on as he went. Nothing seemed awry—dishes by the sink, cats glaring from the sofa, the door to Q’s workshop securely locked—and Bond was almost ready to dismiss the feeling as his own paranoia when he reached the bedroom.

The light there was already on, and it perfectly illuminated Q, hunched on the floor and breathing so heavily as to be audible from the doorway where Bond stood.

“ _Q._ ” Bond was beside Q in an instant, already searching for the source of distress, “Q, what happened?”

Q jerked in surprise at Bond’s hand on his back, twisting away before he caught a look at Bond. “Shitting _Christ_ , James, where the hell did you come from?” He hissed.

“I just got home. Q, what’s wrong?” Bond asked again, though he was beginning to get an idea.

Now able to see Q’s face, pale and red-eyed, Bond realized what the problem was; he doubted, however, that Q’s sudden attacks would ever stop making him fear the worst. The way Q was still hunched over, cradling his right hand in his left, was concerning enough as it was. Q flexed his fingers and grimaced, looking back up at Bond. “I don’t think I like the new medication.”

-/-/-

This was an odd switch, Bond thought as he sat Q down in a kitchen chair and proceeded to check over his hand. The knuckles were red and swollen and would most certainly bruise, but nothing seemed broken. Bond supposed it was fortunate they’d chosen a place with thick walls; he wasn’t keen on repairing drywall if someone put a hole in it.

“Ice.” He declared, moving to the freezer, “Fifteen on, fifteen off, you know how it works.”

“Though usually you’re the one sitting in the chair while I provide medical advice.” Q muttered, echoing Bond’s earlier thoughts.

“Can’t say I care for the role reversal.” Bond mused, retrieving an ice pack and returning to where Q sat, “Any particular reason you tried to put your fist through the wall, then?”

“I wasn’t trying to put it through the wall. I wasn’t– I was just… anxious. All week. And it suddenly broke.” One hand occupied under the ice pack, Q curled the other into a hard fist, “Suddenly, I was just _angry_.”

That much, Bond was familiar with; that impotent rage that came of fear festering too long in one’s mind, the sort with no direction but a desperate need to get out. Bond reached out and took Q’s free hand, tugging at Q’s fingers until he uncurled them. “You’re going back to psych tomorrow.”

Q sighed. “I don’t have an appointment, James.” He sounded ready to drop now, as the rush ran down.

Bond brought Q’s hand to his lips, kissing gently at his knuckles. “They’ll make time for you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Though Q’s eyes had gone soft at Bond’s tender treatment, his mouth still pulled down disapprovingly. “You can’t solve all my problems for me, you know.”

“Not all of them. Just this one.” Bond moved up from Q’s hand to press a kiss to the corner of Q’s mouth, “I promised you. I said I wouldn’t lose you to medication. And I won’t.”

Still uneasy, Q turned his head to catch Bond’s lips, drawing him into a soft kiss. “Okay.” He agreed when they broke apart.

-/-/-

“All seems a bit pointless, doesn’t it?” Q clutched the paper bag containing his new prescription close to his side, “They prescribe me medication for anxiety, it makes me more anxious than I already was, then they give me a different medication. Christ knows what this one will do.”

“They said it might take a while to find one that works for you.” Bond reminded him, “We just have to keep trying.”

“Well. _You_ don’t have to keep trying. If you lose patience, or–”

“ _We_ will keep trying.” Bond insisted with finality, “Now what do you think about grabbing takeaway for dinner?”

Q opened his mouth, shut it, shook his head, and tried again. “That’s. That would be good. Thank you.”

He didn’t just mean dinner; Bond leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Of course.”

-/-/-

There was a quick knock on the door before it swung open to admit Q into Bond’s underused closet of an office. Without a word, Q dropped down into the single visitor’s chair and continued to tap away on his tablet, as if the office was only a convenient place to sit. Though, considering how distracted Q often became by his work, it may have been.

Bond cleared his throat. “Can I help you?”

Q looked up from his tablet at length and blinked at Bond. “Oh.” He shook his head slightly, “Sorry. I was going over the exhaust schematics.” The pet project Q had taken to calling ‘exhaust’ had been explained to Bond with enough engineering jargon that all he’d really gotten out of it was that flames would come out of a car’s tailpipe at the flick of a switch, which sounded both frivolous and absolutely brilliant. “Boothroyd quite liked the idea, so we’re moving forward with it.”

The quartermaster—designation ‘Q’—had been greatly amused to find his new and promising employee shared his title; as everyone largely called him Boothroyd off the comms, he had taken to addressing Q by his usual nickname, until it became a sort of affectionate joke amongst the Q branch staff. _Meant for this place_ , they teased.

“That sounds promising.” Bond grinned; he wondered if he’d be able to finagle his way into testing the car once it was finished.

“It does.” Q nodded, staring vaguely at a point somewhere over Bond’s shoulder.

“What else happened?” Bond prodded, attempting to pull Q from whatever musing he was caught in.

“I think I’m being promoted.” Q’s gaze snapped back to Bond, “Boothroyd wants me to start working on the comms. He seems to think I’m calm and collected, for some reason.”

Bond couldn’t help the quirk of his lips at Q’s amused puzzlement. “You can be.” He assured Q, “When it’s called for.”

Q gave Bond a small smile in return. “It seems like an organizational nightmare.” He shook his head, “I’m not sure there’s even a system in place for which handlers are assigned to which agents. I might be able to rearrange things a little, though…”

“You’ll be running the place in no time.” Bond teased.

“Heaven forbid.” Q rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bond raked his eyes purposefully down Q’s body, “I think it would be a pleasant change in scenery.”

Q scoffed. “Have you always been this randy, or is it just something about my cardigan that does it for you?”

“It’s a very nice cardigan.” Bond said consideringly, if only to see Q chuckle over the idea, “How about we celebrate, then? Dinner?”

Amusement dying down a bit, Q continued to smile at Bond across the desk. “Oh, I think I could be persuaded.”

-/-/-

The restaurant was close enough to be intimate, but not quite enough to be called cozy. The drapes and tablecloths were a brighter shade of red, and the windows faced the wrong direction. The servers’ aprons were black, rather than red. The tables were round, but they had little clusters of votive candles in the middle. It was undeniably a nice restaurant, but it wasn’t _their_ restaurant.

“It’s been almost a year. Probably safe to go back.” Bond mused.

“Maybe.” Q nodded, watching their server wade through the dinner rush with a tray on his shoulder.

“Do you miss it?” Bond asked, “Being a waiter?”

Q looked down to the table, tapping his fingers against his water glass. “A little. Sometimes.” He admitted, “I’d been doing it for years when you met me. It was familiar, and it was easy, and I did enjoy it in my own way. I couldn’t go back to it now, though.”

“No?”

“No. You’ve thoroughly ruined it for me.” Q sighed, almost theatrical in his exaggeration, “I suppose I’ll just have to stay on at a job I adore while living in a flat bigger than I ever imagined I could have and dating a man I am absolutely in love with.”

“My poor darling.” Bond crooned, reaching across the table to take Q’s hand.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage,” Q grinned at Bond, “Somehow.”

“Yes,” Bond smiled in kind, “I’m sure you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, everyone! I'm [solarmorrigan](http://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr if anyone wants to drop by, shoot me a prompt, talk about headcanons, or just... say hi?


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